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^*C^ C^>^ 

'.^ /^ 









Mis brow was sad, his eye beneath 
Flashed like a fauldiion from its sheath. 
And like a silver clarion rtmg 
The accents of that unknown tonjsrue, 

Excelsior ! " LoyGFELLOw. 

Vol. III. 




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in 2010 with funding from 

University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 





At tlie very time tliat on tlie previous 
evening Mrs. Lushington and Lucy had 
quitted Stanhope- street for Drury Lane 
theatre, Mr. Watson, the duties of the 
day in the police-court over which he pre- 
sided being finished, was preparing to 
leave the bench, in order to join Mr. 
Lushington at dinner, as had been 
arranged, when the ofiicer in attendance 
intimated to him that two gentlemen were 
anxious to see the magistrate on private 
urgent business. Mr. Watson s mind had 
been greatly harassed that day by the 


numerous disagreeable cases which had 
been brought before him ; and having 
already been detained much beyond his 
usual hour, he was somewhat discomposed 
by this fresh application ; but still hoping 
he might be released in time to keep to 
his engagement in Stanhope- street (Mr. 
Lushington having in his note expressed 
a particular desire to see him that evening), 
he retired into his own private apartment, 
to which the two gentlemen in question 
were immediately admitted. 

Having apologised for troubling the 
magistrate at so late an hour, one of these 
two introduced himself and his companion. 
" My name, sir, is Marten, of the firm 
of Marten, Lloyd and Co., solicitors, of 
Threadneedle-street. This gentleman, 
Mr. Hamilton, is a chent of our house, 
having a serious charge to prefer against 
a person of influence; he has attended 
here before you this evening, in order to 
obtain your warrant against the gentleman 
in question." The sohcitor paused, ob- 


sendng tliat the magistrate had taken up 
a pen, and was engaged in writing. 

" Pray continue, sir," said Mr. Watson, 
'' I hear all you are sapng. I am merely 
writing an apology to a friend with whom 
I w^as to have dined to-day, for I shall not 
probably be able to keep to my appoint- 
ment. Habit," he added, smihng, " en- 
ables me to do one thing while I am 
listening to another; but I am now at 
yom' commands," and sealing the note 
which he had been writing, Mr. Watson 
rang for his servant, desiring it might be 
sent directly, according to its du^ection. 
" I am now quite at liberty, gentlemen," 
said Mr. Watson, turning to his two 
visitors. " A warrant against a person of 
influence, did you say ? that sounds 
strange ! Who, pray, is the person against 
whom it is to be issued ?" 

The soHcitor paused. " Against a gen- 
tleman of considerable standing in the 
monied world," w^as the reply. 

" You, sir/' said Mr. Watson to Mr. 

B 2 


Hamilton, " are the person wlio lays the 
information, I beheve ?" 

'' I do, sir." 

" Let this gentleman's deposition be 
taken down," said the magistrate to the 

" What is the name of the person 
against whom the information is laid?" 
asked Mr. Watson. And he was, while 
making the question, arranging and num- 
bering some papers which lay before him. 

" Mr. Lushington, of the firm of Lush- 
ington, Bradford, and Strickland, bankers, 
Fenchurch-street," answered Mr. Hamilton. 

The pen dropped from the magistrate's 
hand, and, for some minutes, astonishment 
wholly deprived him of the power of 
utterance. " Who ?" he at last said, as 
though he could not have heard aright. 

" Mr. Lushington, of the firm of Lush- 
ington, Bradford, and Strickland, bankers," 
was the answer. 

" Mr. Lushington !" repeated the ma- 
gistrate, with startling emphasis, '' impos- 


sible ! Pray wliat cliarge can you possibly 
bring against Mr. Lnshington ?" 

" The charge of Forgery /" slowl}^ an- 
swered Mr. Hamilton. 

" What !" exclaimed Mr. AYatson, his 
eyes almost starting out of their sockets. 
" A charge of forgery against Mr. Lnsh- 
ington ! I would as soon believe it of 
myself. It is false — utterly false !" And 
he started up, and confronted the infor- 
mant, as though the charge had indeed 
been made against himself. But m a 
moment, checking himself ^^dth the recol- 
lection that he had a duty to perform, 
with which he must not allow his private 
feehngs to interfere, he again sat dowm, 
and with a strong effort said, ''Excuse 
me, gentlemen ; you will not be surprised 
that I should be overpowered by such a 
charge against an old and respected friend 
hke Mr. Lushington. May I beg you to 
proceed ?" 

Mr. Watson endeavoured to speak with 
magisterial dignity and composure; but 


his voice was agitated, and his whole 
person shook with suppressed indignation 
— he could not so easily forget the friend 
in the magistrate. 

" I am exceedingly sorry to impose so 
painful a duty upon you, Mr. Watson," 
said Mr. Hamilton. "I am not at all 
surprised that you should be slow to be- 
lieve a charge of this nature against Mr. 
Lushington, who has, I believe, hitherto 
borne an unexceptionable character. I 
was as loth to beHeve it as yourself, but 
it is but too true, as you will perceive 
from what I shall now state to you." 

Mr. Hamilton then proceeded to say, 
that having been co-trustee with Mr. 
Lushington for a large sum, which was 
invested in the stocks in the. name of the 
trustees, and having occasion lately to 
make inquiry respecting this stock, he had 
been informed that it had been sold out 
some years back, by virtue of a power of 
attorney, purporting to be signed by Mr. 
Lushington and himself, which latter sig- 


nature was forged ; and that Mr. Lusli- 
ington was either the author of the for- 
gery, or a party in it. 

During this recital, wliich occupied some 
time in taking down, ]\Ir. "Watson sat 
motionless, with his eyes fixed upon the 
speaker. At first, his countenance was 
expressive of indignation that such a 
charge should be brought against his 
friend ; subdued, however, in some degree, 
by a strong determination not to allow his 
feelings to interfere with his duty. But 
as Mr. Hamilton proceeded, the expression 
of anger was changed into that of pain 
and bewilderment — the colour forsook his 
face, and a look of horror and amazement 
was depicted on his countenance. When 
Mr. Hamilton ceased he did not speak, 
but sat with his eyes fixed on vacancy. 
The clerk read the information, which was 
as follows : — 

*'The informant, John Hamilton, says 
that he and Frederick Lushington, banker, 
of Fenchurch-street, were appointed joint 


trustees by Charles Desborough, of New- 
ton Grange, in the county of Surrey, for 
the sum of 20,000/. vested by him in the 
Three Per Cent. Imperial Annuities, in 
the name of the trustees, for the use of 
Ellen Desborough, his wife, and children ; 
and that this 20,000/. stock was put into 
the hands of Mr. Lushington, to be placed 
to the credit of Mrs. Desborough . in his 
bank ; that the stock remained in the 
hands of Mr. Lushington, as the in- 
formant supposed, Mr. Lusliington con- 
tinuing regularly to pay the dividends. 

" That the informant, having occasion 
lately to inquire at the Bank of England 
respecting this stock (still standing, as he 
supposed, in the name of the trustees), he 
learned with surprise that it had been sold 
out in 1826, by Owen Jones, under a war- 
rant of attorney, purporting to be signed 
by the informant and Mr. Lushington ; 
but that the name of the informant is not 
his proper signatm-e, but is false and forged. 
That his informant therefore charges that 


the said Frederick Lusliington did utter 
the power of attorney, knowing that his 
signature was false and forged ; and he also 
charges that the said Frederick Lnshington 
knew that the 20,000/. had been sold ont in 
1826, for that in a conversation which he 
had with the informant witliin a few 
weeks, he stated to him that this stock 
was still standing in their names in the 
Bank of England." 

The clerk ceased, and desu-ed Mr. 
Hamilton to sign the information, and to 
take the oath. He then turned to the 
magistrate, as though waiting his direc- 
tions. Mr. Watson still sat in the same 
attitude, lost in grief and astonishment. 
He took no notice of the inquiring glance 
of the clerk. The pain which this sudden 
shock had inflicted upon him was too evi- 
dent to be overlooked by those present. 
They could not but respect the manly 
grief visible upon his countenance, and 
feel for the agitation which it evidently 


The clerk paused, and looked at Mr. 
Hamilton and his solicitor. Suddenly 
Mr. Watson tried to speak, but failed ; 
again lie tried; he spoke, but his voice 
was low and hollow. "Let the warrant 
be made out," he said. The clerk wrote 
it, and placed it before him. Mr. Wat- 
son's eye glanced over it hurriedly, and 
though unwilling to read the contents, he 
seized a pen with a tremulous hand, and 
tried to sign his name ; but his hand 
trembled too much to allow him to make 
the necessary signature. Mr. Hamilton 
looked at the clerk, who, understanding 
his signal, went out of the room for a 
minute, bringing back a glass of wine. 
Mr. Watson drank it off — made a second 
attempt — and, at last, the warrant for the 
apprehension of Mr. Lusliington, was 
signed by the nearly-paralyzed hand of 
his oldest and most intimate friend. 

The solicitor and his attendant then left 
the room ; and the clerk gathered up his 
papers, and followed them. Mr. Watson 


remained immoveable in his cliair till tliey 
were gone, and then, covering his face with 
his hands, and leaning down on the table 
before him, he groaned aloud. The blow 
had indeed been a terrible one for him. 
To be called npon to sign a warrant for 
the apprehension of the friend of tliirty 
years, whose confidential adviser in aU 
family matters he had been for so long, 
and whom, notwithstanding many points 
of difference in their characters, he loved 
and revered, was, indeed, no light shock 
to an upright man, and a faitliful friend. 
Not that he conld, even now, believe it 
possible that Mr. Lushington had indeed 
been guilty of the crime of which he was 
accused : he knew nothing of Mr. Hamil- 
ton ; and the whole thing might be a 
conspiracy on the part of the accusers. 
But the mere fact of such a charge being 
brought against his friend — the indignity 
offered to him — the pain that would be 
caused to his family — and the injury 
which would accrue to his bank, aU this 


pained and shocked tlie worthy magistrate 
beyond description. 

Forgery was at that time — twenty- 
five years ago — a capital crime ; it 
ranked with murder, and was punished 
equally with that, by the highest penalty 
of the law. The bare possibility of Mr. 
Lushington, although innocent, being 
committed to take his trial for such a 
crime as this (a felony of the deepest 
dye), was enough to drive his friend dis- 
tracted: and then that he should be the 
magistrate to hear such a charge ! that 
Mr. Lushington should be brought be- 
fore him to take his place in the felon's 
dock, and to undergo the examination of 
a prisoner, and, it might be, to be com- 
mitted by him for trial ! No wonder that 
all this coming upon him so suddenly, 
was almost more than Mr. AYatson's 
mind could endure. " Oh, my God !" he 
exclaimed, clasping his hands, as he 
raised his face from the table, " Oh, my 
Grod ! give me strength to bear what 


thou liast laid upon me, whatever it may 
cost me !" 

After a time, by a great effort rousing 
himself, ]Mr. Watson considered what was 
the best plan for him to pm'sue. It was 
now late ; it was impossible that Mr. 
Lushington could be examined that night, 
even if the officer charged with the exe- 
cution of the warrant, should succeed in 
finding him at once ; for in consequence 
of Mr. Watson's tardy excuse with regard 
to dining with liim that day, he might 
possibly be from home, as Mr. Watson 
knew Mrs. Lushino-ton and his dauo:hter 
were out. " His daughter ! Lucy !" ex- 
claimed Mr. Watson, tears rushing to his 
eyes : " Oh, that poor, dear girl ! how can 
aU this be broken to her ! And Eustace 
Grey gone ! AMiat shall I do !" and again 
his feehngs quite overpowered him. 

It was the person charged with the 
warrant for apprehending Mr. Lushing- 
ton, who had called first in Stanhope- 
street, and then, from the information he 


there received from the footman, pro- 
ceeded to the Athenseum Club in Pall 
Mall. Again he left the carriage at some 
little distance, and proceeded on foot to 
the Club, where he inquired of the porter 
whether Mr. Lushington was there. Yes, 
he believed so — he would see ; and he 
brought the man into the hall to wait. 
The servant found Mr. Lushington in the 
library, and informed him that a person 
was in the lobby, wishing to speak with 
him on a matter of importance. 

" I will see him in the stranger's room," 
said he, " if he will wait." 

The man was shown into the room set 
apart for the convenience of friends of 
members, or for those who called to see 
them on business, where he waited for a 
short time, until he was joined by Mr. 

As Mr. Lushington entered, he rose 
and bowed ; then, without saying a word, 
walked to the door, which Mr. Lushington 
had left open, and closed it. 


" You wish to speak to me on business," 
said Mr. Lushington, surprised at the 
manner of the man ; "I do not re- 
member you. Pray, what is it you have 
to say?" 

" My name, sir, is Townshend. I am 
an officer of the police force ; and have 
here a warrant for your apprehension on a 
charge of forging the signature of Mr. 

Mr. Lushington had remained standing 
after he had entered the room, but as the 
officer uttered these words, he sunk into a 
chau' as though he had been struck down 
by a sudden blow : his face became pale 
as death ; his eyes stared wildly at the 
officer, and then around the room ; his 
hands and knees shook ; and in a moment, 
all energy of mind and body seemed gone. 

Before long, however, he so far roused 
himself, that he exclaimed, in a broken 
voice, " My God ! cannot this matter be 
privately settled ?" 

" Make no noise, sir, but come quietly 


with me," said the officer, laying his hand 
upon Mr. Lusliington's shoulder, " and 
then we will see whether it can be ar- 
ranged, but not here." 

Mr. Lushington suffered himself to be 
raised from the chair, and led from the 
room, Townshend placing his arm within 
that of his prisoner, as though he had 
been a friend. Mr. Lushington made a 
great effort to appear composed, as he 
passed through the hall, and walked down 
the steps into the street; but his hmbs 
tottered, and he would have fallen, had it 
not been for the strong arm of his com- 
panion. The officer then made a sign 
to the driver of the carriage which had 
brought him there, to come up. He im- 
mediately placed Mr. Lushington within 
it, and seating himself by his side, told 
the man to go to 18 Great George- 

" Oh, for God's sake, not there !" ex- 
claimed Mr. Lushington, starting up ; 
" anywhere but there ! You said you 


would try if it could not be arranged. 
Take me to Mr. Hamilton, or his lawyer ; 
anywhere but to G-eorge-street !" 

" The warrant is signed by Mr. Wat- 
son, the magistrate of that police court, 
who has given orders that you should be 
brought before him," answered the officer, 
" and I must obey my orders." 

Mr. Lashington threw himself back, 
and groaned aloud. That he should be 
brought before his friend as a criminal, 
and on such a charge, added tenfold to his 
anguish. " Oh," he again said, shudder- 
ing, " do not take me there !" but the 
officer made no reply, and the carriage 
drove quickly on. 

Presently, however, a ray of comfort 
came to Mr. Lushington's mind. Much 
as he dreaded meeting Mr. Watson, it 
occurred to him that if it must be so, it 
would be better that the case should come 
before him than a stranger ; but although 
despair made him cling to this thought, 
he knew his friend too well to doubt but 



that he would act without reference to his 
private feehngs. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Watson had passed a 
fearful evening, while awaiting the return 
of the officer with his prisoner. After the 
first shock, and when he had in some 
measure recovered from it, his conviction 
that the charge must be false, grew 
stronger and stronger. He could not, 
indeed, see in what way the dreadful 
accusation was to be cleared up ; but he 
still had firm confidence that it would be 
so ; and he awaited Mr. Lushington's 
arrival with the most painful impatience, 
much as he shrank from the interview. 

At last a carriage drove up to the door. 
There was a ring and a knock, and in a 
minute Mr. Lushington, supported by the 
arm of the officer, entered the room. Mr. 
Watson's first impulse was to grasp his 
friend by the hand, and he advanced to 
meet him, but suddenly stopped, as though 
he remembered that he had now to act as 
a magistrate, and not as a friend. The 


officer placed Mr. Lusliington in a cliair, 
and the magistrate rang tlie bell, and sent 
a messenger to request the immediate 
presence of Mr. Hamilton and his lawyer. 
A pause ensued, during which no one 
spoke. Mr. Lushington sat with his 
arms resting on the table, and his face 
buried in his hands, his whole frame 
shaking as when he was first arrested. 
Mr. Watson was on the opposite side of 
the table, and never lifted his eyes 
from the papers before him. He was 
struggling for composure, but his hand 
trembled, and the extreme agitation he 
suffered was but too visible. When Mr. 
Lushington entered the room, Mr. Wat- 
son's eye had sought to read in his coun- 
tenance an indication of that innocence 
which he still firmly believed his friend 
to possess. But the appearance of Mr. 
Lushington did not certainly encourage 
any such hope ; and, bewildered and per- 
plexed, Mr. Watson sat down to await the 
arrival of the witness. The appearance of 

c 2 


the only other person present contrasted 
strangely with that of the magistrate and 
liis friend. The officer had remained in 
the room by Mr. Watson's desire, and 
now stood at a distance, by the door, 
looking as unmoved and indifferent to the 
scene before him as though nothing out 
of the common way had occurred ; yet 
fiction had never depicted any scene more 
strange or more distressing than this 
incident of real life. 

The trying suspense was at last broken 
by the arrival of Mr. Hamilton and his 
solicitor. On their entrance, Mr. Lush- 
ington lifted up his head, and, looking at 
Mr. "Watson, for the first time since he en- 
tered the room, said in a [low tone, " Can 
I speak to Mr. Hamilton in private ?" 

Mr. Watson hesitated, leaning his fore- 
head upon his hand ; he covered his eyes 
and seemed struggling with his own feel- 
ing. At last, he said, " An information 
having been laid against you, charging 
you with felony, this charge must now be 


met and disproved. No private interview 
with. Mr. Hamilton can affect this. AU 
explanation must be given openly, in a 
legal manner." 

The magistrate spoke slowly, and with 
great effort, for Mr. Lushington's voice 
and manner, no less than his question, 
had surprised and disappointed him. Mr. 
Lushington sank back in his chair, while 
Mr. Watson, whose emotion became every 
moment more uncontrollable, administered 
the usual oath to Mr. Hamilton, and 
desired him to make his charge in the 
presence of the accused. The witness 
repeated the same statement which he 
had previously made, charging Mr. Lush- 
ington with forging his signature (and 
that of the witness) to the power of 
attorney, by vu'tue of which the 20,000/. 
stock had been sold out. 

During this recital, Mr. Lushington sat 
motionless ; at its close there was a pause 
of some moments, dming which Mr. Wat- 
son* seemed to wait for the answer of the 


accused. " Now," he said, at lengtli, " you 
can give your reply to this statement." 

Mr. Lushington remained silent, and 
Mr. "Watson, gazing at him with astonish- 
ment and grief, again said, in a lower tone 
of voice than before, " Frederick Lushing- 
ton, have you no answer to make to the 
charge brought against you ?" 

There was something indescribably sad 
in the way in which this inquiry was 
made. It was spoken with the manner of 
a friend — the friend of thirty years' stand- 
ing ; there was nothing of the magistrate 
in it. The words were the same as those 
Mr. Watson would have used to any other 
accused person; yet the tone in which 
they were spoken expressed all the dismay 
and agony which the speaker felt, as well as 
his strong affection for him to whom they 
were addressed. Their effect upon Mr. 
Lushington was evident ; his frame shook 

violently, and the tears fell beneath his 
hands on the table; yet he remained 



" By whom was the power of attorney 
witnessed?" at length asked ^Ir. Watson 
of Mr. Hamilton. 

" The names attached as witnesses 
were those of Edward Watson and John 
Hunter, clerks to the bank of Lushington, 
Bradford, and Strickland," answered the 

Mr. Watson instantly rang the hell, 
and desired that his son might be called 
in. Edward Watson came at once, and 
was sworn by liis father. 

" Do you remember on the 20tli 
August, of the year 1826, witnessing the 
signatures of Mr. Lushington and Mr. 
Hamilton to a power of attorney?" asked 
his father. 

" I have no recollection of having done 
so," was the answer. 

The sohcitor produced the power of 
attorney, and handed it to the magistrate, 
who gave it to his son. " Is that yom* 
signature?" asked he, hm-riedly. 

Xed looked at the document with 


astonishment. The nature of the transac- 
tion in which he had heen so unexpect- 
edly called upon to take a part, suddenly 
hroke upon him. He saw the agitation 
both of his father and Mr. Lushington, 
yet it did not occur to him for an instant 
that the latter was the person accused. 
Some one had forged his signature, as well 
as Mr. Lushington' s — that was clear, Ned 
thought, and he answered at once, " That 
is not my signature. I never witnessed 
that deed." 

" That is enough," said Mr. Watson, 
in a tone that was almost inaudible. 
Then beckoning to Townshend, he whis- 
pered, " Let the prisoner be removed ; 
to-morrow his examination will be con- 
tinued in the court." 

The officer advanced towards Mr. Lush- 
ington, and laid his hand upon his shoulder. 
He had fallen forward upon the table. 
Townshend took his arm, and raised it, 
but his head fell back. He was senseless. 

Every usual means was employed to 



recover Mr. Lushington ; and, at last, 
Townshend left Mr. Watson's house with 
his prisoner. 

It was two hours later, long past 
midnight, when a carriage stopped at the 
door of the prison to which Mr. Lush- 
ington had been removed. The figure of a 
man descended from it, and rang at the bell. 
He was instantly admitted, and conducted 
to the room to which Mr. Lushington had 
been taken. It was Mr. Watson, who, 
having written to a brother magistrate, 
asking him to undertake liis duties on the 
morrow, had come to see his unhappy 
friend, with a lingering hope that he 
might still learn from him something to 
alter his opinion of what he had heard ; for 
he could not yet beheve it possible that he 
had been guilty of that with which he was 
charged. True, the evidence seemed to 
leave no doubt ; yet against this came aU 
Mr. Watson's previous knowledge of the 
accused. The magistrate was satisfied, 
but the friend was still unconvinced. 


Ned had, by his father's desire, accom- 
panied the officer and his prisoner to 
Newgate, and he was still with him when 
Mr. Watson arrived. Mr. Lushington 
had been, at length, restored to conscious- 
ness, but was yet in the same state of 
violent agitation as before. When Mr. 
Watson entered, he was sitting on the 
bed, his eyes closed, his hands clasped, 
groaning bitterly. Mr. Watson motioned 
to his son to come to him at the further 
end of the room. 

" Gro, Ned," said he, " to Stanhope- 
street directly. That poor, dear girl ! 
You must tell her something has hap- 
pened — has gone wrong, you may say, at 
the bank — but that I yet hope all may be 
set right ; that I am with her father, and 
will take care of him. They must soon 
know all ; but not to-night. Tell her I 
will come to Stanhope-street to-morrow 
morning, when I will explain everything. 
Try and not let them be alarmed, at least 
not to-night. Let them have one more 


night in peace ; they will need it. Grod 
help them ! Gro directly." 

The minute Ned had left the room, 
Mr. Watson went up to the bed on which 
Mr. Lushington was laying, and, sitting 
down by him, grasped his hands, " Lush- 
ington," said he, " tell me the mean- 
ing of all this dreadful history ; say that 
it is not true — that you did not do 
this. I will beheve your word against 
even the strongest evidence. Speak, my 

But Mr. Lushington tore his hands 
away. The perspiration fell in large 
drops from his forehead. " Watson, " he 
cried, " for mercy's sake ask me nothing ! 
Oh, spare me, spare me !" 

The awful truth at once bm-st upon 
Mr. Watson. Until now he had hoped 
even against hope ; but the words and 
manner of his friend were but too plain a 
confession of guilt. He rose and paced the 
room with uncontrollable agitation, ex- 
claiming, in an agony of grief, " Oh, my 


Grod, my God, that I should have Hved to 
see this moment." 

To find that the friend, with whom he 
had been intimate as a brother, had been 
guilty of such a crime, would have been 
alone a dreadful blow on so honest, and 
liigh principled a man as Mr. Watson ; 
but, in addition to this, he being a magis- 
trate, one whose life was passed enforcing 
truth and equity, there naturally existed 
in him a profound reverence for the law, 
and he shrank from all breach of it as 
from that which was most opposite to 
himself. No wonder then that he looked 
upon the crime of which his friend, Mr. 
Lushington, had been guilty, with horror — 
a crime, too, punishable with the extreme 
penalty of the law. A long silence en- 
sued, broken only by the actual groans 
which burst from Mr. Watson's convulsed 

Mr. Lushington at last spoke. 

" You condemn me — you must ! Grod 
knows, not more than I condemn myself. 


If you knew tlie misery I have suffered, 
ever since that fatal act, you would pity 

" Pity you !" exclaimed Mr. Watson ; 
" I do indeed pity you from my heart ! 
But what could have led you to so fearful 
a deed ?" 

" I did not mean to defraud ; I in- 
tended to restore the money, but diffi- 
culties increased, and it was done with 
many others to save the credit of our 

" With many othersT' repeated Mr. 
AVatson, staring wildly at his friend! 
and gasping for breath, as he fell back 
in his chair. 

Mr. Lushington alarmed, rushed up to 
him, and grasped his hands — they were 
rigid ! He loudly called for help. 

Mr. Watson was carried into another 
room, and medical assistance was imme- 
diately procured. The shock had been 
too great; it had brought on an attack 
of apoplexy ; the danger was pronounced 


to be imminent, but the case not quite 
hopeless, and Mr. Watson was removed 
to his own house. 

And such was the state in which Ned 
found his father on his return from Stan- 
hope-street, where he had been giving 
poor Lucy all the comfort that it was in 
his power to bestow, httle knowing what 
additional distress had fallen upon them 



The news of Mr. Lushington's arrest had 
not reached his partners on the following 
morning' at the horn* when the bank 
opened, and business was going on as usual; 
when Townshend, accompanied by the 
sohcitor of the Bank of England, caUed 
at the house for the purpose of searching 
among Mr. Lusliington's papers for any- 
thing that might throw Hght upon the 
charge. Many persons were passmg in 
and out, and the numerous clerks behind 
the counter were busily engaged in at- 
tending to them, some cashing checks, 
and others entering in huge ledgers the 
amounts paid and received. Every mo- 
ment large sums of money were passed 


over by the cashiers in notes or gold; 
and sovereigns were shovelled across the 
counter in ghttering heaps with as much 
nonchalance as if they had been coppers. 

At the further end of the lono^ room 
were some of the confidential clerks en- 
gaged in writing, wliile, beyond them, in 
an inner apartment, separated by glass- 
doors from the more pubhc one, sat the 
two partners of Mr. Lushington — Mr. 
Bradford and Mr. Strickland. |. 

" I hope Lushington has not forgotten 
his appointment here tliis morning," said 
the latter, " for he promised he would 
come, although it is not one of his re- 
gular days of attendance. I want par- 
ticularly to see liim to decide this matter 
of the Exchequer Bills ; and I must be at 
the Bank of England by ten o'clock ; he 
is not apt to be after his time ;" and Mr. 
Strickland took out his watch. 

" He don't get through the pen and 
ink business as well as he did," remarked 
Mr. Bradford; "it was a great loss to 


him his nephew, Grrey, taking that ro- 
mantic fancy to go missionary to India, 
he was of so much use to his uncle in 
ma^y ways. I don't think Lusliington 
has ever recovered it/' 

" That was owing to some love dis- 
appointment, I believe," remarked Mr. 

" Yes, so I understand ; but who is it 
that writes for him at home now?" he 
inquii'ed ; " for I have seen some copies 
of letters, certainly not in his o^vn hand, 
beautifully written, in quite a regular 
business-like style." 

" It is his daughter, I believe," replied 
Mr. Bradford ; "at least, Lushington one 
day told me how useful she was to him 
in that way." 

" Indeed ! I wish all young ladies were 
as much so. She will be a prodigious 
heiress, that girl ! I wonder she has 
not been snapped up already. There is 
that Elsmere property, which, of course, 
I suppose will be hers — both the sons 



being dead — besides what lier fatlier may 
do for her. What that may be, Lush- 
ington win never divulge. I never knew 
a more close, cautions person than he is." 

" He is quite right," replied Mr. 
Bradford ; "in his responsible situation 
a man cannot be too prudent." 

The conversation was here intennipted 
by the entrance of one of the confidential 

" A person is waiting," said he, " who 
wishes to see the partners on business." 

" Show him in," said Mr. Bradford. 

The clerk withdrew, and immediately 
afterwards Townshend entered. 

"I am sorry, gentlemen, to disturb 
you," he said, bowing, "but I am come 
on a very unpleasant business ; you have 
heard nothing from Mr. Lushington tliis 
morning, I presume ?" 

" No," answered both the partners at 
once, looking much sm-prised, and Mr. 
Bradford added, inquiringly, " is anything 
the matter with him ?" 


" I am sorry to inform you, gentlemen, 
that Mr. LusHngton was last night ar- 
rested by me on a charge of forgery, and 
is probably, at this moment, before the 
magistrate of Marlborough-street." 

The astonishment of Mr. Bradford and 
his partner appeared for a few moments 
actually to deprive them of the power of 

" Good heavens !" at last exclaimed 
Mr. Bradford, " surely this can't be 
true ?" 

" I am not surprised that you should 
doubt it," said Townshend. " But Mr. 
Garrard, the sohcitor of the Bank of Eng- 
land, is in the outer room, and will attest 
to the truth of what I say." 

With this Townshend left the room, 
and almost immediately returned with 
Mr. Garrard. 

This gentleman was known to the part- 
ners, who could now, therefore, no longer 
doubtthe dreadful news they had just heard. 
Their grief and dismay was, beyond de- 

D 2 


scription, great. The blow was so sudden, 
so appalling ! The credit of their house, 
even their own honour, all was at stake ; 
they seemed both to be petrified. 

Townshend ha\dng explained to them 
the purpose for which he had come, they 
unhesitatingly declared their willingness 
to give every facihty for investigation, 
and unlocking all their drawers and boxes, 
placed everything under his inspection. 

The officer, assisted by Mr. Garrard, 
was soon busily engaged searching among 
the numerous documents which the room 
contained for those of most importance, 
while the two partners sat looking on as 
if thunderstruck by this most unlooked- 
for calamity. 

Wliile all this was taking place in Fen- 
church-street, Lucy, after a wretched, 
sleepless night, had, with the very first 
glimmer of daylight on a dark December 
morning, again begim her restless watch- 
ings and listenings, though for wlio, or 
what, she could scarcely have told. If 


she only knew what had happened — what 
had gone ivrong ; as Ned Watson had 
said. If she could but see her father — 
wherever he might be ? She recalled the 
pecuhar kindness of his parting words 
the previous evening — that portentous 
" God bless you,'' which her frightened 
imagination now interpreted into a final 
separation ; recollecting, too, the last time 
she had seen Eustace ! his words that 
evening in Stanhope-street, when he had, 
unsuspected by herself at the moment, 
bid her farewell for ever ! 

Ned Watson had promised he would 
come that morning early ; but eight, nine, 
ten, all these hours had now struck and 
gone by, and still he had not appeared. 

" Shall I not bring you some breakfast, 
ma'am ?" said Lambert ; " for Mrs. Eeid 
says she does not think Mrs. Lushington 
will be ready for hers for a good while 
jet, and I am sure you had better take 

"Thank vou, I will," said Lucv. For 


slie had a presentiment of some dreadful 
evil hanging over her, which it would re- 
quire all the strength of mind and body 
she possessed to endure. 

While her breakfast was preparing, she 
went in search of Eeid. "Is mamma 
still asleep ?" she inquired. 

" Yes, I believe so, ma'am. I took her 
a cup of tea some time ago, and she told 
me then to shut the shutters again, for 
that she had so bad a headache, she could 
not get up yet." 

" Did she ask about my father?" in- 
quired Lucy, in a tremulous voice. 

'' ISo, I don't think your mamma was 
well awake ; indeed, I think she had for- 
got all about last night. Mr. Lushington 
used, you know, so often not to come 
home at night when he went to the bank 
from Elsmere, I do not think yom^ mamma 
thought anything about that — she is not 
so nervous Hke as you are ma'am ! But I 
hope there is nothing really the matter with 
my master ; that he is not ill any way ? " 


" Oh no, notliing, notMng," replied 
Lucy, liurriedly; for she shrank from 
giving a reality to her anxiety by allow- 
ing of it. 

Lucy was still sitting by her nearly 
nntasted breakfast, when she was suddenly 
startled by the sound, as she thought, of 
voices and footsteps in the hall below, and, 
her heart once more beating with hope, 
she hurried to the top of the stairs. There 
were two men standing in the hall parley- 
ing with Lambert. Some altercation ap- 
peared to be taking place between them, 
until on the one, who evidently was the 
principal individual of the party, saying 
something in a low voice to Lambert, 
the latter was, to all appearance, at once 
silenced, and they all three advanced to- 
wards Mr. Lushington's room ; — Lambert 
giving them the key of the door, which he 
seemed to take out of his own pocket. 

Lucy could control herself no longer; 
and with an energy one would have 
thought little belonging to her gentle 


nature, slie rushed down the stairs and 
seizing the butler by the arm : " Lambert," 
said she, " what does all this mean ? 
What are these men going to my father's 
room for ? How dare you give them the 
key of it ? You know how particular he 
is that notliing should ever be touched 
there. Give me the key — I insist upon 
it," said Lucy, her cheeks suddenly 
coloured with angry agitation. 

Lambert was deadly pale. " Ma'am," said 
he, his voice trembhng as he spoke, " there 
is nothing wrong, I assure you, notliing I 
It is only" — and he stopped. 

" Lambert, I am certain there must 
be something not right going on," con- 
tinued Lucy, with a boldness and firmness 
of which she would at any other time have 
been scarcely capable. " I will not allow 
you to let any one go into my father's 
room, he being absent from home." 

Lambert had by this time in some de- 
gree recovered himself, and he answered 
mildly, " I am, I assure you, acting ac- 


cording to my duty, Miss Liishington. 
I must be," lie added in a broken voice 
and agitated manner, " for here are Mr. 
Lushington's keys — I mean his own pri- 
vate keys, which have been sent here by 
this gentleman from the banking-house 
(by Mr. Bradford and Mr. Strickland), that 
he may look for and take to them some 
papers that are wanted there. This gen- 
tleman will show you my master's keys." 

Townshend stepped forward with the 
keys in his hand, and held them up to 

'' Yes, I see," she said, tears starting 
into her ejes at the sight of those well- 
known objects so identified with her father. 
" Yes, T see they are my father's keys." 
It was impossible for her to mistake them, 
for to them was affixed by a chain a small 
seal on which was Mr. Lushington's crest, 
and they were in his hand that previous 
evening, when she had pressed it to her 
lips, in gratitude for his kind commenda- 


" I am sent, miss," said Townsliend, 
" for some papers which are wanted by 
the gentlemen at the banking-house, for 
Mr. Lushington cannot just now come for 
them himself — he is particularly engaged ! 

Lucy contended no more. " Can you 
tell me where he is?" inquired she in a low 
trembhng voice. *' Is he at the bank, or 
at Mr. Watsons?" 

" I can't say where he is just now, 
miss," said Townshend, evidently evading 
her question ; "I have not seen him this 
morning — his keys were sent to me." 

Townshend then, bowing to her, left 
Lucy, and went across the hall to the door 
of Mr. Lushington's study, accompanied 
by Lambert. 

" A fine spirited girl that, faith," whis- 
pered Townshend to him ; " she seems to 
look very sharp after her father's in- 

Lucy watched them for a minute or 
two, and then with tears slowly stealing 
down her face, " Oh, my God !" she ex- 


claimed, " what does all this mean ! 
what can have happened ! My father, my 
dear father !" 

She again left the door of the drawing- 
room at the top of the stairs open, in order 
to hear what went on below. The men 
remained a considerable time in Mr. Lush- 
ington's room, and she could distinguish 
the noise of opening and shutting of 
drawers. At length voices and footsteps 
were again heard in the hall ; the house- 
door opened and closed, and then all was 

Not long after Lambert came up with 
a note in his hand, but before giving it 
to Lucy he stopped. " I hope. Miss Lush- 
ington," said he, in an agitated manner, 
" you do not think me capable of — of in 
any way forgetting my duty to my master ; 
believe me I would go through fire and 
water for your father and yourself." 

" I am sure of it — I am satisfied of 
that," said Lucy, " and I should ask your 
forgiveness, Lambert, for having spoken 


to you as, I dare say, I should not have 
done, but — but I am," — and Lucy burst 
into tears. 

" I know, T know," said Lambert ; " I 
did not mean that, ma'am, only that I 
assure you, you may trust me. I hope 
you do, Miss Lucy ?" 

" Yes, yes," sobbed out poor Lucy, " in- 
deed I do." 

There was a minute's pause, while Lam- 
bert turned from her to wipe away his 
tears, and then in a more composed man- 
ner, " Here is a note, ma'am," said he, 
" from Mr. Edward Watson, and the man 
waits for an answer, perhaps he will tell 
you something." 

The note was as follows : — 

" My dear Miss Lushington, 

" I am so distressed at not having 
kept my promise of being with you this 
morning, but I am sure you will forgive 
me when I tell you that I have been pre- 
vented by the sudden illness of my dear 


father — a sort of fit wliich for some time 
deprived him of speech ; but, thank God, 
he is certainly better this morning, being 
again quite conscious. Although he can- 
not yet articulate very distinctly, the doc- 
tors give great hopes that by care and 
perfect quiet he will do well. Of course, 
under these circumstances, I do not like 
to leave him. I have not seen Mr. Lush- 
ington yet to day, but shall by-and-by, 
and if possible I will come to Stanhope- 
street some time in the evening. Pray, 
dear Miss Lucy, don't fret yourself. 
" Tours truly, 

" Xed Watson." 

T\^ule all this was passing at his home 
in Stanhope-street, the unliappy cause of 
all this misery was enduring tortures of 
mind such as the stoutest heart would 
shrink from. When, after his sudden 
awful attack, Mr. Watson had been re- 
moved, pale and death-like, jfrom the room 
in which Mr. Liishington was confined,^ 


and that he was thus left alone, the full 
wretchedness of his position hurst upon 
him. The violent effect produced upon 
his friend by the confession of his guilt, 
had suddenly brought home to himself 
the awful position in which he was 
placed more strongly than he had hitherto 
felt it. While busied in trying to render 
assistance to Mr. Watson, he had almost, 
for the moment, forgotten his own situ- 
ation ; but when, in his anxiety to assist 
in the removal of his friend, he had ad- 
vanced to the door with those who were 
carrpng hini out, an arm was roughly 
laid upon his shoulder, and a stern voice 
said, " You can go no further, sir !" Thus 
suddenly recalled to a sense of his own 
condition, he staggered back, and again 
fell upon the bed, deep groans bursting 
from his oppressed breast, and all the 
horrors by which he was encompassed at 
once rushing upon his mind. The ex- 
posure of his guilt — the utter destruction 
of his family — the consternation, the 


misery of his poor Lucy ! For stern, cold, 
and even unkind as lie often appeared to 
be, lie loved liis daughter with all the in- 
tensity of a strong character. Then the 
total ruin which his disgrace would bring 
upon the bank — the indignation of his too 
confiding partners — and, more dreadful 
than even all this, the certainty of his con- 
viction, and of the consequent horrible 
sentence awaiting him, for he well knew 
there was no possibility of escape from the 
severest penalty of the law. He was too 
well aware of all of which he had been 
guilty in violation of that law, to have 
the shadow of a hope as to the final issue. 
All this passed in rapid succession through 
his mind, and wrung from him a bitter 
cry of agony ! A cold sweat burst out in 
large drops on his forehead, while before 
him rose a vision of death. And such a 
death ! So awful — so ignominious, and 
perhaps so near ! The thought was too 
horrible to be borne. His head became 
dizzy — his brain whirled — his mind could 


bear no more, and lie sank back upon tbe 
bed in a state nearly of insensibility ! 
He was with difficulty roused in the 
morning from the stupor into which he 
had fallen, and urged by the attendant to 
take some nourishment. He eat mechani- 
cally what was put before him, and then 
suffered himself to be led from his room 
and placed in a carriage. In his way 
down stairs, his eye fell on Ned Watson, 
who had come to inquire after him. Mr. 
Lushington immediately stopped, and held 
out his hand to him. "Your father, 
Ned?" said he. 

Ned rushed up to him, seizing the 
offered hand. "He is better, thank you 
sir — much better," stammered out poor 
Ned, for the alteration which had taken 
place in Mr. Lushington's appearance, 
even since he had so lately seen him, 
quite overpowered him. 

" God be thanked !" said Mr. Lushing- 
ton, clasping his hands, and then made 
a sign to his conductor to proceed. 


But few persons were assembled in the 
police-court, the fact of Mr. Lushington's 
arrest not having yet become publicly 
kno\\Ti. Another mao^istrate filled Mr. 
Watson's place, beside whom were Ed- 
ward Watson, Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Marten, 
and Mr. Everard, Mr. Lushington's own 
solicitor, who had been summoned by jS'ed 
Watson, in the name of his father, to watch 
the case in behalf of the prisoner. One 
or two persons were besides present, whom 
chance or vague curiosity had drawn to 
the spot, to witness whatever might be 
brought forward. To some of these Mr, 
Lushington happened to be known by 
sight, and great was their astonishment 
when they saw one so well known, and so 
highly esteemed in the monied world, led 
into court between two policemen, and 
placed in the prisoners' dock. 

Being quite imable to stand, Mr. Lush- 
in^rton was accommodated mth a seat, 
while the charge against him was again 
briefly stated by Mr. Marten. The wit- 



nesses repeated the same statements as 
tliey had made the previous night. A few 
questions were put to them by Mr. Lush- 
ington's sohcitor, without ehciting any- 
thing favourable to his cHent. The 
magistrate then asked Mr. Lushington 
what answer he had to give to this serious 
C'liarge against him. Mr. Lushington was 
silent ; and in the minds of all present, his 
silence wsls equivalent to a confession of 
his guilt. The magistrate spoke for a few 
minutes with the solicitor of Mr. Hamil- 
ton, and then addressing Mr. Lushing- 
ton' s solicitor, he asked whether he had 
anything to bring forward on the part of 
his client. Mr. Everard said he had only 
just been made acquainted with this pain- 
ful charge against Mr. Lushington, and that 
he had therefore been unable to communi- 
cate at all with the accused. He trusted, 
however, that the magistrate would 
remand Mr. Lushington, in order to 
allow time to disprove the charge, which 
he doubted not could still be done, for 


it was evident that Mr. Lushington's si- 
lence was owing to the shock he had ex- 
perienced from the unlooked-for accusa- 
tion. The magistrate, however, would not 
grant Mr. Everard's request. He said it 
was not for him to decide finally upon the 
case, but that he thought sufficient cause 
had been shown why he should commit 
Mr. Lushington to take his trial on this 
charge. Mr. Everard then asked if the 
magistrate would take bail for his client, 
but in vain. Mr. Lushington stood 
charged ^viih. sl capital offence, and must 
remain in prison until his trial. Mr. 
Lushington was therefore removed, and 
again placed in the carriage which had 
brought him, accompanied by Mr. 
Everard ; and thus, bowed down by shame 
and agony of mind, he was conveyed back 
to Newgate, there to await his trial. 

E 2 





It was not iintil far on in the after- 
noon of that same clay when Townshend 
and his companion had heen to Stanhope- 
street, that Mrs. Lushington sent for 
Lucy into her room. She was still in bed. 
" I fear I got cold last night at the play," 
said she. " There were such dreadful 
drafts in that stage -box, and my head 
aches abominably. Is your father come 

"No, not yet," said Lucy, in a low 
tremulous voice, thankful that the small 
glimmer of light in the apartment pre- 
vented her mother from distinguishing 
lier face, the expression of which might 
otherwise have alarmed even the least 


"What is this foolish story Eeid has 
been teUing me about Mr. Lushington 
having sent Townshend the thief-catcher 
here with his keys, to look in his room 
for some papers for him? I never did 
hear such a parcel of nonsense ! Thief- 
catchers are sent after thieves, not after 
papers ; and I hope we have no thieves in 
this house ! Do you know anything about 
the matter ?" 

" I know papa sent somebody here for 
some papers he wanted, but I don't know 
who he was." 

" And you did not ask ?" rejoined Mrs. 
Lushington, with much impatience of tone 
and manner. 

" No, mamma, I did not ask his name. 
I saw he had papa's keys, and so I con- 
cluded he was authorised ; and indeed I 
was at the moment so — so startled," 
Lucy stopped. 

" What are you saying ?" inquired Mrs. 
Lushington, still more angrily. " You 
really speak so low, I cannot hear a word. 


And you actually had not the curiosity to 
ask the man's name? I must say that 
was very stupid, and indeed very careless, 
when you saw your father's keys in a 
stranger's hands. — And you never even 

" No," repeated Lucy, still more unable 
to articulate. 

" Oh, I suppose you were in one of your 
trances, pouring over some of your friend 
Mr. Eussell's pious books, and so attended 
to nothing. I do wish you would rouse 
yourself, Lucy, and be a little more like 
other people, and know what you are 
about. And so you know nothing more ?" 

" No, mamma." 

" Well, you had better order the car- 
riage, and go to Mr. Watson's, and find 
out from him what it is that is detaining 
Mr. Lushington in the city, as he appa- 
rently won't be at the trouble to write 
and tell me himself, which I must say I 
think he might as well have done." 

" Mr. Watson is, I fear, very ill, 


mamma. I have heard from his son Ned 
that he has had an attack — a sudden 
seizm-e, Ned calls it ; and is to be kept 
quite quiet." 

" Oh, poor old man ! I am sorry for 
him." And then, directly reverting to her 
own indisposition, Mrs. Lushington con- 
tinued, " I certainly am not at all well, so 
I think I shall send for Dr. Baillie at 
once, for I am afraid it may be the influ- 
enza that is coming on, and it is best to 
take it in time ; so write a note to him, 
and beg him to call as soon as he can. 
Are there any letters or notes come for 
me? and has Hardinge sent those pat- 
terns of silks I sent for?" 

" I don't know, but I will inquire." 
" Dear me, how tiresome you are !" ex- 
claimed Mrs. Lushington. " You never 
know anything, at least nothing you 
should. I really wish you would get out 
of this very troublesome absent way you 
have got into ; I can't imagine what it is 
you are always dreaming about." 


Lucy attempted at nothing in lier de- 
fence. She felt quite unable to utter 
another word, and stood at her mother's 
bed-side, brushing away with her hand the 
tears, as they one by one stole down her 
cheeks and fell upon her dress. 

" Well, if you can't be more entertain- 
ing," resumed Mrs. Lushington, evidently 
in a very bad humour, " you had better 
go back to your good hooks, and you may 
send Eeid to me. I shall not get up yet, 
but try if I can't sleep off my headache." 

Lucy was too happy to be thus released, 
and returned to the drawing-room, as 
from thence she could hear every noise in 
the hall below. The heavy anxious hours 
somehow crept on, she scarcely knew how, 
all occupation being impossible ; and the 
short dark December day had already 
nearly closed in, when she heard a ring 
and knock at the house door. She started 
up, and ran to the top of the stairs. She 
saw Lambert hurrying up. "It is Mr. 
Bradford, and Mr. Edward Watson with 


him. They deshed to be shown into the 
dining-room, and would be glad if you 
would go do^vn to them, ma'am ; but 
here is ]\Ir. Edward coming up to speak 
to you, I see." 

Xed looked so agitated and unlike liim- 
self, Lucy had not courage to ask him 
any question. '' I have just seen your 
father," said he at last, his voice trem- 
blino' with evident violent emotion. " He 


wished Mr. Bradford to call upon Mrs. 
Lushington ; and as she is not much ac- 
quainted with him, he thought I had 
better accompany him. But I understand 
JVIrs. Lushino:ton is not well enouo^h to 
see any one ; w411 you, Miss Lushington, 
come down?" 

A cold shiver crept over poor Lucy's 
frame. " For pity's sake," she exclaimed, 
" tell me what does all tliis mean?" 

" Oh I it is only, that Mr. Bradford is 
come by your father's desire to explain 
what has happened, as he could not well 
come himself. Will you be so kind as 


come down to him ?" Lucy said nothing, 
but grasped Ned's arm for support, for she 
felt her knees were giving way under her. 
Mr. Bradford was seated by the dining 
table, his head resting on his two hands. 
He started up on Lucy's entrance, and 
bowed to her. " Miss Lushington, I con- 
clude," said he, with much formality of 
manner. " I am sorry to hear that Mrs. 
Lushington is not well enough to see me, 
but I suppose I may acquaint you with 
the purport of my present visit." Mr. 
Bradford was a dry, grave looking man, 
and who living entirely in the routine of 
business, was little conversant with emo- 
tion of any sort. " My friend,'' he began, 
and then immediately correcting himself. 
" Mr. Lushington wished me to come to 
you, to explain the unpleasant situation — 
the distressing circumstances in which he 
— indeed in which we are all suddenly 
placed ! — The extraordinary — unlooked- 
for event ! " — Lucy again unconsciously 
caught hold of Ned's arm for support, her 


very lips were colourless. Mr. Bradford 
continued : "It lias come upon us all as a 
thunder-bolt. — I had always looked upon 
Mr. Lusliington as a man of the strictest 
probity— the highest principles of honour!" 
— Lucy stared wildly at Mr. Bradford, and 
turning to 'Ned, "What does all this mean?" 
she exclaimed ; " tell me at once what has 
happened !" Mr. Bradford made signs to 
Ned to speak. 

" Mr. Bradford," said Ned, " is loth to 
pain you. Miss Lushington, by speaking 
out at once, and of course you don't un- 
derstand him, or what he refers to. I ^vill 
try and explain." Mr. Bradford sank 
down into his seat, his head again leaning 
on his hand. " You see. Miss Lucy," 
continued Ned, in a hurried, breathless 
manner, "you see, your father, somehow, 
got into money difficulties, and so to 
assist the bank, and his friends, he some 
time ago, put his name to a paper — no not 
his 0W71 name, there would have been no 
harm in that, but somebody else's name ; 


in sliort, lie signed the name of another 
person (which in law is not allowed), about 
a sum of money, I can't explain it all. He 
did not mean to cheat any one, quite the 
contrary ; and of course Jie meant to replace 
the money, but somehow he never could 
manage to set it right. So the person 
whose name he wrote, now accuses him of 
— of what is punishable by law of — of what 
they call forgery, and he must stand his 
trial !" — One piercing shriek burst from 
Lucy's stricken heart, she fell back in the 
chair behind her, a fixed statue ! Staring 
wildly, first at Ned, then at Mr. Bradford! 
she did not utter a word, her eyes were 
fixed, her lips apart, she still grasped con- 
vulsively Ned Watson's arm. '' This is 
what your father is accused of," continued 
Ned, quite overcome. " But you know 
there are often such things as false accusa- 
tions, as I dare say this will prove to be ; 
but, however, there must be a trial, and 
then, I have no doubt, all will come right, 
and we shall all be happy again ! so don't 


take on so, Miss Lucy. It was your father's 
wish, that Mr. Bradford should come and 
explain all this to you, that 3^ou might not 
hear it by chance, in case it should frighten 

"I do not understand, I cannot make 
out what you are saying," said Lucy, in 
the same strange fixed bewildered manner. 

Mr. Bradford walked up and down the 
room in great perturbation. 

" I think we should do well to send for 
Miss Lushington's maid," said he, " and 
leave her to her care, for I must confess I 
am not at all competent to assist on such 
painful occasions. Will you be so good 
as rmg the bell, Mr. Watson, for we had 
better go, we can be of no use here !" 

"Oh, I really cannot leave her in the 
state she is now," said Ned. 

"Has she no friend you know of, to 
whom you could send?" inquired Mr. 

" No, I know of none," he replied. 
" Oh, if Eustace Grrey was but here !" 


" Eustace !" exclaimed Lucy ; that 
loved name reaching her bewildered 
senses, though nothing else did. " Oh no, 
he is gone, gone quite away for ever ! No 
one would have dared to bring any such ac- 
cusation against my father, had Eustace 
been here ! but we have no friend now." 

At that moment there was a low knock 
at the door of the room. It was Lambert 
come to say, that Dr. Baillie, whom Mrs. 
Lushington had sent for in the morning, 
was come, and whether he should take him 
up stau's. 

" Thank heaven !" said Mr. Bradford ; 
" we can't do better than put Miss Lush- 
ington into his hands ; he will know what 
to do with the poor girl, and I am sure I 

" Will you go and speak to him," said 
Ned, ''and tell him what has happened?" 
and then, turning to Lambert, " Show Dr. 
Baillie into Mr. Lushington's study." 

The kind-hearted Dr. BailHe, who was 
personally acquainted with Mr. Lushing- 


ton, from frequently attending upon Mrs. 
Lushington, whether he would or no, for 
some of her many imaginary complaints, 
was thunder struck at the intelligence he 
received — " Lushington ! — Forgery ! I 
can't believe it to be possible V 

" I wish I had a shadow of a doubt as 
to the truth of the accusation," said Mr. 
Bradford. " I have had to break all this 
to his daughter, by Lushington' s o^vn par- 
ticular desire. I came here just now, for 
that express purpose, he w^as so afraid she 
might hear of it suddenly by chance, and 
perhaps I did not manage the matter well, 
but it has completely stunned, stupified 
her ! she hardly knows what she is say- 

" I am very sorry for you, Mr. Bradford, 
having so painful a duty to perform," said 
Dr. Baillie ; " and Mrs. Lushington, how 
does she take it ?" 

" I have not seen her ! As yet she 
knows nothing, and as }'ou are so provi- 
dentially come here at this minute, I am 


sure I bad better put" tbe wbole matter 
into your bands, Doctor, for I am really 
quite unfit for it." 

" Ob, I suspect it will not go so bard 
witb tbe motber as witb tbe daugbter." 

Dr. Baillie went up to Luc}^ and took 
ber band. Sbe started, and looked at bim 
earnestly, as if trying to remember wbo 
he was. 

" Don't you know me. Miss Lusbing- 
ton ? you bave often seen me. I am Dr. 

"Ob, I am so glad!" sbe exclaimed; 
" can you tell me bow papa is ? — is be very, 
very ill? I wisb I could go to bim, I 
would be very— very quiet, I would not 
even speak to bim ;" and tben putting up 
ber band to ber bead, " I feel so strange, 
so confased !" 

" Yes, I know you do," said Dr. Baillie, 
*'but you will be better soon. Will you 
come up stairs witb me to your own 

Lucy said notbing, but got up and 


leant on Dr. Baillie's arm. The door 
of Mr. Lushington's room, which they had 
to pass to reach the stairs, had been left 
open. Ned hurried on to shut it. '' No, 
no," cried the Doctor, " leave it open, she 
had better see the room, it may affect her, 
and that is what we want ; tears would at 
once relieve her, poor thing ! the shock 
has been too much for her." Lucy stopped 
a minute at the open door, looking anx- 
iously in, then suddenly loosening herself 
from Dr. Bailhe's arm, she rushed into 
the room, and falling on her knees before 
her father's chair, as her head fell upon it, 
her pent up misery burst forth. 

" She is safe — she is safe," said the 
kind-hearted doctor : " faith, I was 
frightened for her. I did not Hke her 
look at all. Call the servant ; we must 
get her up stairs." 

Lucy was carried up, and laid on her 
bed. It was a considerable time before 
Dr. Baillie left her. He talked soothingly 
to her, till he saw she was quite herself. 



" Oh !" — she cried, clasping his hand in 
both hers — '' Oh, take me to my father ; 
pray take me to my father." 

" Yes, I will; but for that you must be 
quite composed. And remember now, my 
dear young friend, you have a part to 
play — a great duty to perform. You have 
to soothe, comfort, and assist your father ; 
not to add to his trials by your own dis- 
tress : and for all this j'ou must try and 
get some command over yourself. You 
will be of no use to him, unless you can 
command self. Now, if you will keep 
quite quiet, and that I find you in a fit 
state to-morrow morning, you shall go to 
your father. I will come here and take 
you to him myself. I shall give you 
something presently, which will quiet 
you, and make you sleep ; and I trust I 
shall find you quite difierent to-morrow. 
I am going down to your mother now, 
and shall tell her I have left you resigned 
to Gods will." 

Lucy closed her eyes, and clasped her 



hands apparently in prayer. Dr. Baillie 
left the room, and proceeded with Mr. 
Bradford to Mrs. Lusliington's apartment. 
The dreadful news they had to communi- 
cate was received by her as such news ^is^ 
generally by persons of weak and selfish r^ 
minds, wiih sn i fsfxA , uncontrolled, hysterical ^ 
screams, and ringing of hands. She was 
always sure this would be the end of it. 
If Mr. Lushington would have taken her 
advice, he would have got rid of the 
whole thing long ago. She supposed she 
was to be ruined and disgraced for ever. 
What was to become of her ? &c. &c. In 
short, self was her first a^nd last idea. 

" Such noisy grief will soon stun and 
cure itself," said Dr. BailHe to Mr. Brad- 
ford. " I only fear poor Mrs. Lushington 
is not yet half aware of how totally her 
position in this w^orld will be changed ; 
. and that is, I suspect, what will go hardest 
with her. Eeally, when I think of it all, 
I can hardly beheve my senses ; and cer- 
tainly poor Lushington must have lost 

F 2 


his, to go and cut liis own throat in this 
way ; and what for ? It is an awful affair ! 
Well, I will come early to-morrow, and 
take that poor girl to her father ; nothing 
else will quiet her, that I see : it will be a 
trying meeting for them both, but it wdll 
be best over at once ; and from what I 
saw of her just now, I should not like to 
trust her to any one but myself. Unless 
I am much mistaken, however, if she gets 
safely over this moment, her character will 
rise with her trials : those gentle, quiet 
creatures have sometimes the most real 
energy and courage. Where is poor 
Lushington ?" continued Dr. BailHe. 

" Of course, in Newgate," was the reply. 

The doctor shuddered. — "I really 
can hardly believe it yet. How is the 
wretched man himself?" 

" Perfectly hopeless, I suspect," said 
Mr. Bradford ; " but now quite composed. 
He has a wonderful degree of courage. 
I believe he has for some years past 
endured a load of mental misery which 


would have killed anybody else, and yet 
which no one ever suspected he was en- 
during — not even his most intimate 
friends. That poor Mr. Watson 1 the 
blow has nearly killed him ; he has, in 
consequence, had a regular seizure, and 
I should think, from what I hear, will 
hardly rally from it." 

" God help you all !" said the doctor, 
with a deep sigh. '' Well, I will be sm-e 
to be here to-morrow early, and take that 
poor girl to see her father." 

The kind-hearted Dr. Baillie was punc- 
tual to his appointment, and Lucy was 
ready to receive him. She was deadly 
pale, but calm and collected ; sitting 
nearly motionless, her hands tightly 
clasped together, as if to still their 
nervous, convulsive twitchings. 

Having visited Mrs. Lushington in due 
form, and ordered her to keep her bed 
(the advice which he knew best suited her 
case). Dr. Baillie drew Lucy's arm within 
his, and they went down stairs together. 


On reaching the hall he stopped, and 
pointing to Lambert : "Is that your 
father's servant ?" said he ; '' he had 
better come with us." 

A look was sufficient to make Lambert 
understand. On getting into the carriage 
the doctor whispered something to him, 
and they set off. Baillie did not attempt 
to utter a word to his unhappy companion, 
as on they drove through endless streets, 
crowds of carts and carriages, and impedi- 
ments of all sorts ; still on and on they 
went, Lucy never even raising her eyes. 

At length, suddenly seizing hold of her 
companion's hand, " Where are we going 
to? Where is papa?" said she. "At Mr. 
Watson s, or at the bank ?" 

" My dear young friend,'* said Baillie, 
la}dng his hand on Lucy's, "you know 
your father is charged with having broken 
the law, with what is called a capital 
offence ; therefore, till he is jD^oved inno- 
cent, he is in custody. Your father is in 
IS'ewgate prison. We are not far off now." 


" In prison !" cried Lucy, in a tone of 
agony, the dreadful details of lier father's 
situation thus one by one breaking in 
upon her mind in all their awful reality. 
" Oh, my father ! my dear, dear father !" 
and she clasped her hands in agony. 

" Now remember your promise — re- 
member your duty, my good girl. It is 
to support, to comfort your father. You 
must not add to his distress by your 

''Xo, no, I promise you I won't;" and 
Lucy said not another word. 

At last the carriage stopped. Ned was 
at the prison door to help Lucy out. She 
did not even see him. She was led into a 
room, and a chair placed for her. Dr. 
Eaillie was named to the official, who had 
immediately come to them. No difficulty 
was made about admitting him or his 
trembling companion, and they followed 
their guide. Lucy never looked up, cling- 
ing to Dr. Baillie's arm ; but she could 
not help hearing the dreadful sound of the 


unlocking and opening of various bars and 
bolts as they proceeded. At last they 
stopped. A door was thrown open — a 
figure rose from a chair, and Lucy was 
clasped in her father's arms ! 

" Lucy, my dear child ! my brave girl l" 
cried her father, " blessings on you !" 
and Mr. Lushington burst into tears. 
Those tears were like welcome rain on a 
parched land. They were the first he had 
shed, and he thanked God for their 
luxury ! 

Dr. Baillie had been quite right when 
saying Lucy's character would rise with 
her trials. She was even herself surprised 
at the composure with which she went 
through all she had now to endure. It 
was her devoted affection for her father, 
an affection in which somehow the remem- 
brance of Eustace was blended, and also 
the strong principle of duty which had 
now gradually taken firm hold of her 
mind, which carried her through it all. 
But still the possible awful end of all this 


present misery she had not yet contem- 
plated. She was so convinced of the im- 
possibility, of her father having been guilty 
of that of which he was accused — so satis- 
fied that nothing wrong or dishonourable 
could ever be proved against him, that his 
present trying situation, his momentary 
disgrace, in consequence of accusation of 
any sort, the undeserved suffering he was 
now enduring, these were the evils which 
pressed on Lucy's mind, and she looked 
not (even in her moments of greatest de- 
pression) to the still greater, more awful 
trials which awaited her. 

Dr. Baillie had left the father and 
daughter for some time alone together, 
when he again returned to the room. He 
spoke kindly to Mr. Lushington, bidding 
him take care of his health, and entreating 
him to attend to the advice and prescrip- 
tions which he gave him. 

" Thank you, my good friend," said 
Mr. Lushington, in a low dejected tone, 
" but I require no medicine for my body ; 


it will serve me my time of needing it," 
he added, but in so low a voice, Lucy 
heard not the concluding words. 

"May I come to-morrow, papa?" she 
inquired. " Can't I be of any use to you 
in any way ? Oh, if he was but here !" 
she added, ''but you have no Eustace now!" 

" Would to God he were here, indeed !" 
said Mr. Lushington, clasping his hands ; 
" but 'it is now too late — too late ! Come 
here to-morrow, you say, Lucy ? No, not 
to-morrow — not just now; I shall be 
busy ; I have much to occupy me at pre- 
sent, in which you cannot help me : and 
!Ned Watson can come to me now. His 
father, thank Grod ! is better ; he can ven- 
ture to leave him occasionally. And this 
is no fit place for you, my poor girl !" 
added Mr. Lushington, after a minute, 
as he fondly kissed her tear-bedewed 

" Come, come, I must take Miss Lush- 
ington away," said Dr. BaiUie, endeavour- 
ing to assume a cheerful tone. " I have 


half-a-score of patients waiting for me, 
and I cannot stay here any longer." 

Mr. Lnshington caught hold of the 
kind doctor's hand. " I thank you ft'oni 
my heart," he said. '' I can't say the 
good you have done me. The sight of 
that dear good girl has humanized me ; 
but," he added, vrith a deep sigh, " it has 
almost made me wish to live." 

Lucy fell into her father's arms, and, 
without uttering a word, she sufiered her- 
self to be taken away. She wept bitterly 
during their drive back, but they were 
natural tears ; and her task for the day 
being over, her kind companion did not 
endeavour to check them. 

''' I am coming m to see yom- mother," 
said he, as soon as the carriage stopped in 
Stanhope-street, " and you had better 
come in with me, for you have not met 
yet, I believe, since — " 

The doctor proceeded up-stairs to 
Mrs. Lushington's room, and was ad- 


" Here is your daughter, Mrs. Lushing- 
ton," said he. "I thought you would 
like to see her before I order her to go 
and lay down to rest herself." 

" Oh !" said Mrs. Lushington, '' I must 
own I have wondered she has not come 
before, considering all things. You have 
been out, I understand. Where have you 
been to ?" 

" She has been with me to see her 
father," said Dr. Baillie, rather shortly (for 
Mrs. Lushington' s strange cold manner 
irritated him). 

"It is well for those who can do such 
things," she replied. " / cannot boast of 
such composure," and there was a threat- 
ening of a return of the hysterics. 

" I believe your daughter," continued 
the doctor, taking no notice of Mrs. Lush- 
ington' s gasping sighs, " felt the effort as 
much as any one could ; but I am glad 
she made it, — it has been a great comfort 
to her father." 

"Papa is better than I expected to find 


him," said Lucy, in a tremulous voice ; 
and she bent over and kissed her mother's 
cheek. " I am sure all will yet be well, 
so we must try and bear it. God will 
watch over dear papa." 

Mrs. Lushington made no answer ; and 
Lucy, feeling she could command herself 
no longer, hastened out of the room. 



At a late hour that same afternoon, 
Messrs. Bradford and Strickland, having 
obtained permission for an interview with 
their unfortunate partner, they waited 
upon Mr. Lushington at Newgate ; and 
in consequence of the investigations and 
disclosures which then took place, they 
found their affairs to be in so hopeless a 
state, that they instantly came to ihe 
resolution of sending off to all the diffe- 
rent newspapers, an announcement signed 
by the two partners (Bradford and Strick- 
land), giving notice that they felt it their 
duty to stop payment. The consternation 
occasioned by this intelligence in the city, 
and all London, indeed throughout the 
country, was beyond description. So long 


and well established a house ! the partners 
persons of such high consideration in the 
world ! and such a sudden and unlooked- 
for a calamity to so many ! Knots of per- 
sons were seen in the streets, with awe- 
struck countenances, discussing the appal- 
ling news, which of course soon reached 
the Lushington household, with every 
possible additional detail of calamity ; and 
each individual in it began to think of 
his or her own probable interest in the 

Early the follomng morning, Lambert 
received a note from Ned Watson, in- 
forming him of what had occurred, and 
suggesting the propriety, under existing 
circumstances, of shutting up the house in 
Stanhope-street. In consequence, when 
Lucy left: her room early that morning, in 
order to go and inquire after her mother, 
she saw all the window-shutters on the 
side next the street were closed, as if 
death had visited the dweUing. Lambert, 
who was watching for her, immediately 


hurried up to her with Ned Watson's 
note. Lucy read it, and returned it to 
him, without uttering a word ; but instead 
of proceeding to Mrs. Lushington's apart- 
ment, she went back again to her own, for 
she felt her courage giving way, and that 
she had need to teach herself her own 
lesson before she could encounter her 

Lambert had prepared some breakfast 
for Lucy in a small room at the back of 
the house (the drawing-room, which was 
to the front, being in total darkness) ; 
and oh, the miserable feeling of desola- 
tion which then came over her ! her utter 
aloneness! She had brought with her, 
from her own room, her little Testament, 
and endeavoured to fix her mind to the 
words which her eyes mechanically ran 
over ; but it was all a blank. The book 
had opened of itself at ihe page marked 
by Eustace, at his now well-known, well- 
remembered text, " Love not the world." 
Lucy no longer needed any explanation — 


any application of those words. How few 
months had elapsed since she had first heard 
them from his lips ! and how totally differ- 
ent a world it was now in her estimation ! 
Poor, poor Lucy ! could hut one mo- 
ment of her existence have heen recalled — 
that momentirwhen she was sacrificed hy 
her worldly mother to her own selfish 
calculations — how different (even although 
amid all the appalling events hy which 
she was now assailed), vfould have heen 
her fate ! Instead of having alojie to hear 
the weight of trials and difficulties, such 
as few are called upon to endure — instead 
of being overpowered, as she now was, 
hy worldly perplexities, with no one to 
apply to for help and advice — she would 
have heen under the protecting care of 
the kindest of human beings, the most 
devoted of friends, the most exalted 
of Cln-istians ! of one who adored her ! 
sheltered in that home which might 
have been her's, beside the dear old grey 
church at Elsmere Manor. 



And of all this it was her mother who 
had deprived her ; and yet to ward oif, as 
much as possible, from that mother the 
painful events which, one after another, 
were now so rapidly pressing upon them, 
was Lucy's first object. 

Could Eustace Grey, amid the bound- 
less world of waters by which he was then 
surrounded, have beheld his dear Lucy, 
she whose hand he had wrung with such 
agony when, on the last evening they had 
spent together, he had, as he thought, 
resigned her to that hated world which 
she could not bring herself to give up for 
him, his weak, human, doating heart 
might have bled at the sight. But how 
the Christian's spirit would have rejoiced 
to see one whom he so loved, raised in 
principle, character, and conduct, even 
above what his most partial afiection 
would have thought so gentle a nature as 
hers could have been capable. 

As soon as Lucy's sad, solitary repast 
vv^as over, she went down to her mother's 


apartment, the windows of which, looking 
into the court, and not being, conse- 
quently, all closed like those to the street, 
Mrs. Lushington was not aware of the 
tomb-like gloom of the rest of the house. 
She had at last left her bed, and was 
reclining, carefully wrapped up in cloaks 
and shawls, with pillows and footstools, 
and all the pomp and ceremony of illness, 
in an arm-chair by the fire, as if she had 
mistaken and forgotten the cause of her 
present confinement, and fancied it was 
her body rather than her mind that was 

She received her daughter in her usual 
chilling manner, affecting at the moment, 
from a spirit of contradiction, even a 
greater degree of careless indifference, with 
respect to the events of the two last days, 
than she really felt ; for she could not but 
be struck by the expression of utter misery 
painted on Lucy's countenance, and, in 
consequence, she at once decided on 
assuming an opposite tone and manner. 



" Have you heard anything of your 
father to-day ?" she inquired of Lucy, as 
soon as she had entered her room. 

" No, not yet." 

" He was pretty well yesterday, was he 
not ?" continued Mrs. Lushington. 

It required all Lucy's self-command to 
steady her voice sufficiently when reply- 
ing, *' Papa seemed much worn with 
husiness yesterday. I can't say he looked 
well at all." 

" Oh, he is so used to that eternal 
business, I don't suppose he minds it. It 
is his meat and drink. I conclude you 
are going to him again to-day, though I 
should think you must he terribly in his 
way, if he really has so much to occupy him 
just now ; and I must say it seems to me 
to be a queer place for a young lady to go 
to, among a parcel of bankers, and clerks, 
and poHcemen, and I don't know what all. 
But as my advice is never asked, I never 
give it." 

There was a pause, Lucy with pain per- 


ceiving how totally lier mother was mis- 
taken with regard to where she had seen 
her father the day before, how little her 
mind had taken in what slie had been 
told, and how little she was prepared for 
all that was hano:in2: over her. Indeed, 
what that all was, even Lucy's imasrina- 
tion had never yet dared investigate. It 
Avas not, however, that Mrs. Lushino'ton 
was really as ignorant of the truth as she 
now pretended to be; but, like aU persons of 
narrow, vulgar minds, and weak intellect, 
she was of a jealous, suspicious disposition, 
always considering herself as aggrieved. 
She had just sufficient understanding to 
be aware of her daughter's superiority, and 
owed her a grudge for it. She cared very 
little for her husband's affections or good 
opinion, but she could not patiently brook 
his very evident partiality for his daughter. 
Praise, in short, of any sort, bestowed 
upon another, grated disagreeably on Mrs. 
Lushington's ears, and irritated her tem- 
per; and it was Dr. BailHe's commenda- 


tion of Lucy the day before, for her self- 
command when visiting her father in his 
distress, which had provoked Mrs. Lnsh- 
ington to pretend to make more hght of 
the whole business than she really did ; 
and she acted her assumed careless part so 
well, that Lucy, thinking it her duty, in 
some degree, to prepare her mother's mind 
for the truth, she, with averted eyes, con- 
tinued : 

" I fear papa is very much harassed 
and distressed just now, and that some- 
thing has gone very wrong in Fenchurch- 
street ; for Ned Watson sent a note here 
this morning, to say that the bank has 
stopped payment." 

"The bank done wliatT said Mrs. 
Lushington, impatiently. " Do pray speak 
a little more intelligibly." 

" Stopped payment, mamma," repeated 

" Oh, stopped payment^ exclaimed Mrs. 
Lushington. " Dear me, how technically 
you speak ! But, pray, do you know what 


tliat means? for it is very silly making 
use of wise-sonnding words, without know- 
ing their meaning ; it is like a parrot." 

" I suppose — I believe — ■ it means," said 
Lucy, in a still more inaudible voice, 
'' the bank failing, not being able to 
answer the demands made upon it." 

'' Well, as you seem so prodigious wise 
about all these matters, perhaps you can 
tell me what this payment-stopping has to 
do with that absurd, abominable accusa- 
tion that this Mr. Hamilton has brought 
against your father ? Hey !" 

'' No, I can't ; I don't know, mamma," 

" Oh, no, you never know anything. 
And who, pray, is this Mr. Hamilton, 
whom no one ever heard of before ? Some 
low person probably ; and to go and 
trump up such a story against a gentle- 
man ! I would treat it with the contempt 
it deserves, and trouble myself no more 
about the matter, if I were Mr. Lushing- 
ton; but he always makes such a work 
about everything." 


" I hope we may hear something more 
to-day," said Lucy ; " perhaps Ned Wat- 
son may calL" 

" If any one should call," said Mrs. 
Lushington, interrupting her, " ( I don't 
mean Ned — you may take charge of him 
yom^self, as you appear to be so prodigious 
fond of him), but if any one else calls to 
enquire after me, you may let me know, 
and perhaps if I feel pretty well towards 
the afternoon I — I may see them ; in 
short, you may let me know." 

These hoped-for inquiring visitors, 
however, never came. None of Mrs. 
Lushington's dear West-End friends were 
in town, and she had so disgusted her 
former City acquaintances by her im- 
pertinent airs on her removal to Stanhope- 
street, that all intercourse with them had 
ceased entirely. There are few good 
enough Christians (either on the east or 
west side of Temple Bar) who, when cast 
off by one in prosperity, will seek that 
individual in adversity; and, besides, all 


monied and business men in the Cit}^ 
stood agliast at the crime with which Mr. 
Lushington was now charged. 

" Perhaps, in a day or two," continued 
Mrs. Lushington, " if I keep pretty well, 
I may drive to Fenchurch-street, if your 
father is not returned home, and inquire 
a little into all this business ; for I cer- 
tainly don't get much information from 
you ; but it is such a terrible long drive, 
and such an odious part of the town !" 

About an hour or two after this con- 
versation with her mother, and when 
Lucy had returned to her own room, she 
was informed that Mr. Edward Watson 
was below, and " this gentleman mth 
him," said Lambert, holding out to her a 
card on which was written, " Mr. Everard, 
Lincoln's Inn." " Mr. Lushington's so- 
licitor, man - of - business, you know, 
ma'am," he added. 

" Has my father sent him here, do you 
know ?" inquired Lucy. 

" Yes, I believe so, ma'am. They 


asked for Mrs. Lusliington, but when I 
told tliem she was confined to her room, 
Mr. Edward inquired whether they could 
not see you." 

" Where are they ?" asked Lucy. 

" They are — I have shown them into 
my master's study, for both the dining 
and drawing-room are dark, you know." 

Lucy gave a shudder. " Oh, well — ^yes, 
I will come down." 

She did not raise her eyes on entering 
the room. Mr. Everard immediately 
ofiered her the arm-chair by the fire, on 
which apparently he had himself been 
seated (her father's chair). She hastily 
pushed it back, and, drawing another be- 
fore it, sat down, for, in truth, she could 
hardly stand. After a moment, however, 
having in some degree recovered her com- 
posure, she asked Ned after Mr. Watson ; 
she could not bring herself to pronounce 
her own father's name before a stranger, 
though she longed to know whether Xed 
had seen him that morning. 


" My father is, I trust, in some degree 
better," said Ned, tears starting into his 
eyes ; " but it will, I fear, be a long time 
before he is himself again ; and I am so 
sorry. Miss Lushington, on your account, 
as well as my own; for he would have 
been of so much more use to you just 
now than I can be, with all the wish in 
the world to serve you, which I am sure 
you cannot doubt ; and I am now come 
with Mr. Everard, to help him to explain 
to you many things — some which will, I 
fear, be very disagreeable to you — and 
seem odd — and which, naturally, Mrs. 
Lushington will not Hke — but which — " 

And poor Ned stopped short, saying 
that Mr. Everard would explain it all 
better than he could. 

" You are aware, madam, I know," 
began Mr. Everard, in a formal business- 
like style and manner, " of the distressing 
situation in which Mr. Lushington is now 
placed, that in consequence of the great 
demands on the bank, the enormous sums 


for whicli he is responsible, liis property 
of every kind is claimed by tlie law ; in 
sliort, is no longer at his own disposal." 

Mr. Everard stopped, observing the 
death-like hue which had spread itself 
over Lucy's countenance, and the almost 
convulsive heaving of her bosom. Eor a 
few moments there was a total silence, 
until Lucy herself broke it, and in a 
scarcely audible voice, said, " Go on, sir, 
if you please ; I wish to hear all — at 

Mr. Everard resumed, in the same dry, 
lawyer-like tone, " In consequence of 
these unfortunate circumstances, it will 
be, of course, necessary that the establish- 
ment here should be immediately broken 
up ; and Mr. Lushington has authorised 
me at once to discharge all the servants, 
and give up the horses and carriages. 
I have not, of course, spoken to any of 
them yet, wishing first to inform Mrs. 
Lushington. I have here with me Mr. 
Lushington's note on the subject, if you 


wisli to see it;" and Mr. Everard held it 
out to Lucy. 

At the sight of her father's well-known 
writing, Lucy's blanched hps quivered ; 
and she passed her hand frequently before 
her eyes, as if to clear her sight. " I see, 
— I understand," — she said at leng^th, as 
with a trembling hand sh^jetui'ned the 
letter to Mr. Everard. 

" I need not add," he resumed, " that 
I am afraid (at all events for the present, 
till matters are cleared up) that Mrs. 
Lushington must leave this house ; in- 
deed, on the discharge of the servants, it 
would be impossible for her to continue 
in it : of course, any private arrangements 
which she may think fit to make for the 
future with any of them individually, I 
have nothing to do with. Her means 
must necessaril}^ be greatly reduced ; her 
jointure, in short, will be all that will be 
hers legally (that is, I think, as well as I 
recollect of the marriage settlement, 400^. 
a-year !) I need not say, madam, what 


pain it gives me to be the bearer of such 
unpleasant intelligence ; but, as you will 
have observed by Mr. Lushington's note, 
the obligation laid upon me is imperative. 
Allow me to add, that I shall be happy to 
be of all the use I can in any way, if you 
will honour me by employing me. Shall 
I wait upon Mrs. Lushington, or, if I can't 
see her just now, shall I come again?" 

Twice Lucy attempted to speak, and 
twice she failed ; at length, with an evi- 
dently violent effort, she stammered out, 
" Perhaps if you could call again — in an 
hour — I am sorry to be so troublesome — 
but I think I had better prepare my 
mother, and at this moment I feel scarcely 
able ;" and a convulsive sob stopped 
Lucy's utterance. 

" Whatever arrangement suits you best, 
madam," said Mr. Everard, taking his 
hat, and with a bow he left the room. 
Lucy stood as if petrified. Ned was 
about to follow the sohcitor, when sud- 
denly, as if waking out of a trance, she 


rushed up to him, and catching hold of 
his arm, — " My father !" she said ; "he 
knows of all this ?" 

" Yes, he sent Mr. Everard here, and 
he desired me to come with him. He is 
so anxious about you, Miss Lucy !" 

Lucy made a sign to Ned to leave her, 
she could command herself no longer. 
"Wlien the door closed, she sank back on the 
chair behind her as if struck by a thunder- 
bolt ! the horrible whole truth suddenly 
rushed though vaguely upon her soul! 
for so violent was the shock, she could not 
even define to herself whence it came, or 
what it was ! Her senses were paralyzed, 
she could not think. She could not em- 
body in any tangible form the awful terror 
which had taken possession of her; so 
strangle had been Mr. Everard's words — 
his allusions to the future — her mother's 
jointure!! She sometimes in her bewil- 
derment thought her father was even now 
no more ; for in all these necessary ar- 
rangements and changes he was never 


even alluded to ! Poor Lucy's brain 
whirled. She stared around her, as if to 
try and recall her mind to some reality — 
all was such horrible confusion ! She was 
in her father's room — but his chair was 
empty ! The usual heaps of papers on 
the large writing-table then before her 
had all disappeared — notliing remained. 
There was the place at which Eustace 
used to sit — but it was vacant ! — One 
object alone was still the same — the small 
black repeating clock on the chimney- 
piece. Lambert had carefully kept it 
wound up, and its well-known regular 
vibration suddenly struck on Lucy's 
ears. How strange are the impressions 
made upon us by outward objects ! That 
familiar sound so connected in her mind 
with the hours she had of late passed at 
her father's side in that room, touched at 
that moment some string in her heart, 
arousing it into life ; and, clasping her 
hands over her eyes, her head fell on the 
table before her, and at length the agonies 


of lier stricken soul found vent in tears. 
Lambert from the hall heard her con- 
vulsive sobs, and immediately hurried 
into the room, administering to her all 
the assistance in his power ; he spoke 
kindly to her ; he named her father. 

" Mr. Edward," said he, " has seen Mr. 
Lushington this very day ; he is quite as 
well as when you saw him, ma'am. For 
his sake bear up, all may yet be well. 
Let me fetch you a little wine — it will do 
you good — I'll get it directly." 

Lucy thankfully availed herself of Lam- 
bert's offer ; for she felt she had now a 
duty to perform, and it was necessary to 
strengthen herself for it. All this was to 
be broken to her mother, who, she feared, 
was less prepared for the awful truth than 
even she had been herself. That truth 
had now reached Lucy's heart ; she felt 
as if it had paralyzed it ! Her tears no 
longer fell; it seemed to her as if her 
very nature was changed. She had no 
longer a hope left — she felt all was over, 



and yet she was composed ! It was the 
composure of utter despair. 

Assisted by Lambert, Lucy went up to 
her own room; and there, falling on her 
knees, she implored for that help from 
above which is never denied to those who 
seek it in faith and resignation ; and rely- 
ing on that Divine assistance, firm in pur- 
pose, Lucy, after a time, repaired to her 
mother's room. On her entrance, even 
the careless unfeeling Mrs. Lushington 
was struck with the strange fixed com- 
posure of her daughter's countenance, even 
more than by the trace of her recent tears. 

" Bless me," said she, " what is the 
matter now? You look, as if you had 
seen a ghost ! I must say it is a pity, 
Lucy, you give way so much to these 
low spirits, when you should rather try to 
keep mine up." 

" I fear, mamma, I have something 
to tell you that will grieve you very 
much, and that is what is now distressing 


" Well, what is it ? so many things 
distress you, Lucy. I can't say I am 
much alarmed." 

" Papa has sent Mr. Everard here," 
continued Lucy " (his solicitor, I believe 
he is called), to explain to you the dis- 
tressing state of his affairs ; and I fear 
it is all much worse than we thought ; 
you were not up when he came a httle 
while ago, so I asked liim to call again 
in an hour, and I dare say he will be here 
soon. Will you see him, mamma ? he will 
explain it all better than I can ; but one 
thing I fear I understand, from what he 
said, that (for the present, at least) we 
must leave this house." 

" Leave this house ! why, pray ?" 

" Because of these great difficulties at 
the bank." 

Lucy's voice became more and more 
inaudible at each word she uttered. 

" Well, I never did hear such non- 
sense ! this must be one of your strange 
blunders, Lucy ! Wliat in the world can 

H 2 


our living in this house have to do with 
the bank ?" 

" Mr. Everard will explain all," again 
said Lucy, feehng herself totally unable 
to reply to her mother's question, " and 
I hope he will be here directly." 

" I am sure I hope he will, for I cer- 
tainly canmake out nothing from your story, 
Lucy. — It is just possible," resumed Mrs. 
Lushington, after a moment's pause, and 
apparent reflection, " if there is so much 
additional business at the bank just noWj 
your father may wish to have his partners 
with him here instead of going backwards 
and forwards to Eenchurch- street now the 
days are so short ; and if that is the case, 
I will not object, for I should not at aU 
dislike going for a little while to Eich- 
mond. There is an excellent hotel there, 
and I dare say, a little change of air would 
do me good. So send Eeid to me here 
directly, to make me a little more fit 
to receive visitors ; and let me know as 
soon as Mr. Everard comes. And I 


desire you have no more of these private 
meetings with him and Ned Watson — 
they are highly improper ; and I must 
absolutely see him, myself; it is so im- 
possible to make anything of your strange 
stories !" 

Mr. Everard came, and repeated to Mrs. 
Lushington the same facts, of which he 
had informed Lucy, in nearly the same 
words, at least, with regard to her quit- 
ting Stanhope-street. 

" I leave this house !" exclaimed Mrs. 
Lusliington. " I give up this house ! 
indeed, I will do no such thing, and no 
one can force me to it ! for I know the 
lease was renewed last Easter, so that 
there is, at any rate, fom- or five months 
to run. No one, therefore, can have any 
claim upon it whatever, or any possible 
right to tm^n me out." 

" I fear the law, madam," continued 
Mr. Everard (in the same dry, impertur- 
bable manner), " will not attend to the 
circumstance of the renewed lease, but 


will oblige you to give it up at once ; it, 
in short, claims the whole of Mr. Lush- 
ington's property!" 

" The whole of Mr. Lushington's pro- 
perty !" exclaimed Mrs. Lushington, with 
a look of horror. *' Wliat then is to be- 
come of me ?" 

" Whatever comes under the head of 
your ' paraphernalia/ madam/' continued 
Mr. Everaro", " of course cannot be 
touched, any more than any sum of 
money settled upon you at the time of 
your marriage — your jointure, in short. 
But everything else is forfeited." 

" Well, you may call this law, if you 
please," exclaimed Mrs. Lushington, sud- 
denly interrupting Mr. Everard, her eyes 
flashing fire and defiance. "But if this 
is the way in which I am to be treated, 
I shall go to law for myself. Law, 
indeed ! a pretty sort of law ! and pray 
what is the cause of this sudden bother 
about the law ?" 

" You know, madam," continued Mr. 


Everard, still in the same unmoved man- 
ner, " that Mr. Lnshington stands charged 
by Mr. Hamilton, with having forged his 
signature, and having, thereby, defrauded 
him of certain sums, appropriating them 
to other purposes ! I firmly believe, such 
is my respect for Mr. Lushington's cha- 
racter, that he folly intended to restore 
the sums, but that, through his many 
intricate speculations, he has got himself 
involved beyond all recovery. AU this, 
however, the trial will bring to light ; 
but, at all events, at this moment the 
law must take its course, and everything 
must be given up." 

" It is all some abominable conspiracy, 
I am sure," said Mrs. Lushington, trem- 
bling with passion, " but I will have 
redress — I will not be imposed upon — 
robbed — pillaged. I — I — " and Mrs. 
Lushington fell back in, but too real, 
violent convulsive hysterics. 

Lucy immediately flew to her mother's 
assistance ; and a painful task she had to 


perform, in listening not only to the most 
unreasonable complaints of ill-usage from 
every one of her fellow-creatures, but even 
to rebellious murmurs against Divine Pro- 
vidence, and loud invectives against that 
dear father, who (notwithstanding his ha- 
bitual coldness of manner towards her), 
had wound himself round his daughter's 
heart, in a way she could hardly herself 
account for ; and whose present obloquy 
did but the more tenderly endear him ; as 
poor Lucy had quite succeeded in per- 
suading herself that it had fallen upon 
him from unfortunate circumstances, and 
the faults of others, without any actual 
misconduct on his own part. 

TVith Mrs. Lushington, on the contrary, 
whose distress was for self alone, her 
daughter could not, in any way, sym- 
pathise, nor consequently administer all 
the relief which might have been in her 
power, if she had understood such feelings 
better ; but she listened mth gentleness 
and patience to all these rebellious com- 


plaints, until, exhausted by tlie violent 
agitation to which she had given way, 
and lulled by a composing medicine, which 
had been administered, Mrs. Lushington 
sank into a sort of stupor. Lucy then 
left her to the care of Mrs. Eeid, and 
returned to her own room, feeling that 
she needed rest both of mind and body, 
both having been taxed almost beyond 
their powers. 

Lambert, who had been watching for 
her, hastened up to her with a note. 

" It is fi'om Mr. E-ussell," said he, " he 
left it a little while ago, and will call for 
an answer presently." 

" Mr. Eussell !" exclaimed Lucy ; an 
expression of joy for a moment passing 
over her countenance. 

" I may let him in, I suppose ?" added 

'' Oh, yes, yes ;" and she ejaculated fer- 
vently to herself, " Thank God, thank 
God ! " 

The kind-hearted Mr. Eussell actually 


started on beholding poor Lucy ; it was 
not so much her pale, haggard counte- 
nance, as the fixed look, the tearless eye, 
which shocked him. And, indeed, he 
had come providentially at that moment, 
for Lucy's power of endurance was be- 
ginning to give way. 

With what gratitude, therefore, did she 
welcome so kind a friend, and one so es- 
pecially suited to help her in this, her 
hour of need. 

Mr. Eussell knew all; there was no- 
thing to be told. He soon saw his poor 
young friend was prepared for the worst, 
and he administered to her the only com- 
fort which could, under such circum- 
stances, be given, — strengthening her 
mind to bear the trials with which it 
pleased her heavenly Father to aflBict her. 
And how he admired the courage with 
which she was alone struggling with an 
accumulation of misery such as few are 
called upon to endure. Lucy told Mr. 
Eussell of her visit to her father. " Oh !" 


she exclaimed with energy, clasping her 
hands, "if he would see you, would you 
go to him?" 

" It is for that express purpose I have 
come to town. In case I could be in any 
way of use to him or yourself. But I 
should wish you merely to teU him I am 
here, that you have seen me, and that he 
may depend on my giving you all the 
help and comfort in my power ; do not 
attempt to force me upon him. I have 
little acquaintance with Mr. Lushington, 
but I think I read him aright." 

Gratefully did Lucy follow her kind 
friend's advice, and as soon as he had left 
her, she sat down to write to her father in 
order to have her letter ready against 
Ned Watson called, as he had promised he 
would do late in the afternoon. Scarcely 
had she begun it when there was a knock 
at the door, and Eeid entered. 

" If you are at liberty, ]\Iiss Lushing- 
ington," said she, "I should be glad to 
speak to you for a minute. I hope you 


will not be offended," she continued, " but 
if you Avould be so good as answer Mrs. 
Lusliington's bell this afternoon, I should 
be glad to go out for a little while." 

" Is it anything very particular," in- 
quired Lucy, rather surprised at such a 
request at such a moment. " Mamma is 
so very unwell to-day, that, perhaps — " 

" Yes, it is something particular,'' said 
Reid, the colour deepening in her face ; 
" I have heard of a situation which I 
think may suit me, and I wish to go after 
it before it is gone." 

'' A situation !" said Lucy ; and she 
felt the blood had also mounted to her 
own cheeks. " Why ! do you wash — " 

" Oh of course, ma'am, I don't mean I 
have any fault to find ^\\i}l Mrs. Lush- 
ington or my place here, but E feel it 
my duty to myself to think of myself. 
I am of course very sorry to leave Mrs. 
Lushington, especially in her present con- 
dition, but at the same time I natm'ally 
wish to do the best for myself, and 


make sure of a good situation at once, 
before — " 

" I understand, I understand," said 
Lucy, her lieart (notwithstanding her en- 
deavours to quiet it) throbbing with angry 
emotion at Eeid's cool unfeeling manner. 
" Of course you are at liberty to go ; I 
wiU attend to my mother." 

" And I suppose Miss Lushington," 
continued Eeid, " I may refer the lady to 
you ; for I am afraid of applying to Mrs. 
Lushington at this moment, for fear she 
should be angry, and not give me a fair 

" Yes, certainly, you had better refer her 
to me, Eeid; and you may say to the 
person you are going to that you are at 
liberty to leave this house as soon as she 
wishes for you." 

Eeid coloured up, for she understood 
the reproof which was conveyed by those 
words of Lucy, and muttering something 
about the propriety of every one thinking 
of themselves, she left the room. 


This was a small evil among the many 
by which Lucy was then assailed, but it 
was the drop too much to her already full 
cup of bitterness. They are the smaller 
trials which generally overcome us in sor- 
row. We are prepared for the greater, and 
summon aU our fortitude to meet them, 
but our spirits' give way before some tri- 
fling circumstance, which at another time 
we should have passed over unnoticed. 

So it was now with Lucy, and her tears 
rolled down her face uncontrolled, almost 
unconsciously to herself; and she had 
more than once again to begin her letter 
to her father, from the great drops which 
fell upon the paper before her. Lucy did 
not in her letter even advert to Mr. Eve- 
rard's visit that morning. She expressed 
her anxiety to know how her dear father 
was ; her wish again to see him, to be of 
use to him ; but she would not torment 
him. She dwelt on Ned Watson's kind- 
ness — on Lambert's constant attention. 
She then named Mr. Eussell, spoke of his 


visit and the comfort it had been to her. 
She said he was now staying in town, and 
how happy he would be, if he could in 
any way be of use to her dear father. The 
next day Lucy received the following note 
from Mr. Lusliington : — 
" My dear Lucy, 

" It was a great pleasure to me to get 
your letter ; write to me as often as you 
feel inclined ; that wiU be better for me 
(for us both perhaps) just now than our 
meeting. I have much harassing business, 
for which I must keep my mind as quiet 
as I can. And Ned Watson is now able 
to come to help me, as much nearly as 
I am able to be helped by him or any one. 
Lucy ! my dear girl, you must prepare 
your mind for the worst ! Thank God, 
mine is fully made up. Thank Mr. EusseU 
for me for his kindness to you, and tell him 
I shaU be very glad to see him if he will 
not mind visiting me where I am now ! 
" Your affectionate father, 

" Frederick Lushington." 


Oh, how fervent were Lucy's thanks to 
the Almighty for these blessed words from 
her father. She felt as if the " bitterness 
of death was past ;" and with what tears 
of gratitude did she afterwards listen to 
LIr. EusseU's account of thieir interview. 
The next day, by her father's desire, Mr. 
EusseU again waited upon him in New- 
gate, and he brought back with him these 
few words to Lucy. 

" You shall see me again, dear child, I 
promise. You cannot think I would leave 
this world without again beholding what 
I love best in it, but I am very weak, Lucy. 
I believe I have not half the moral cou- 
rage which, from all I hear of your admira- 
ble conduct, you have ; and I fear the sight 
of you would be too much for me just now, 
and unfit me for the work I have stiU to 
do, which must be done for the sake of 
others. I have been writing to Eustace, 
though God knows when, or if ever, he 
mil get my letter ! but it was a gratifica- 
tion to me to write and ask his forgiveness 


for all my many offences towards him. 
Dear, good Eustace ! oli, Lucy, my poor 
girl ! why did you not listen to him ? — 
How different would your fate now have 
been ! how different my feelings in leaving 
you ! — But Grod's ^vill be done !" 




During the time wliicli now passed so 
heavily in Stanhope-street, Lucy never 
relaxed in her patient attentions to her 
mother. When, how, or by whose means 
Mrs. Lushington's mind was brought to 
the knowledge of the whole truth, with 
regard to the dreadful calamity which 
had fallen upon them, and the final 
awful event hanging over them, Lucy 
knew not, for she had not coui'age to im- 
part to her mother any of the information 
she herself received. The departure of 
aU the servants, except Lambert and one 
girl, daughter of the farmer at Elsmere, 
who remained to attend upon Mrs. Lush- 
ington, of com-se could not fail to open her 
eyes to the reality of what she at first re- 


fused to believe, as well as to the impossi- 
bility of remaining in tlieir present 
house. She was furious with Eeid for 
leaving her, and inveighed loudly against 
the abominable ingratitude of servants, 
and their want of proper feeling ; though, 
in truth, Mrs. Lushington's manners and 
behaviour to them were not such as could 
in fairness claim any particular return of 
affection on their part — Mrs. Lushington 
never expressed the least wish to see her 
husband, indeed whenever the subject was 
any way alluded to, she always said the 
same thing — that Lucy was quite right to 
go to her father in prison if she liked it, 
but that for her part her nerves were not 
fitted for such scenes. The subject now 
apparently uppermost in her mind was 
what she called her " par aphkfi alia,'' 
namely, making inventories and collecting 
together every article of dress, ornament, 
or furniture to which she could possibly 
lay claim, and her room was filled with 
large deal boxes, which she was busily 

I 2 


engaged packing and repacking all day- 
long, often pressing even poor Lucy into 
the service. 

One day, when Mr. Eussell called in his 
way to Newgate (for his visits there were now 
constant), he found Lucy tying up a parcel. 

" Am I to send this to the parsonage, 
or to your residence in London ?" said 
she ; " they are your books — those you 
lent me when I left Elsmere. I have 
been very thankful for them — but you 
had better have them now — for in a few 
days we leave this house ; and I fear 
when we go to the one mamma has taken 
— I shall not be able to ask you to come 
and see me — as you have done here — and 
which has been such a pleasure — such a 
comfort to me. We shall then have but 
one room — and mamma, I know, will not 
like — she will object " 

Mr. Eussell understood poor Lucy's 
broken words but too well — that his 
visits, in short, would be no longer per- 


Lucy said no more ; she went on tying 
up the parcel. While doing so, what a 
crowd of remembrances rushed upon her 
mind ! Those books were going back to 
Elsmere — to that much-loved home of her 
childhood, where she had been so happy. 

Eustace — the old grey chm^h — every 
object and ch'cumstance connected Avith 
those past days, came to her mind with 
a vividness, a poignancy, which they 
had not of late, occupied as she now 
was, by other and such fearful thoughts 
and anticipations. Neither she or Mr. 
Eussell said a word; he felt he could 
hardly have trusted his voice to speak, 
and poor Lucy's quivering lips, showed 
plainly she could not. When she had 
finished her sorrowful task, she rang for 
Lambert, and bade him send the parcel 
to Mr. Eussell's lodgings ; then, turn- 
ing towards the latter, she drew a ring 
from her finger — "Will you give this 
to Mrs. Eussell, as a keepsake from 
me?" she said. — She pressed his hand 


in both of hers, and abruptly left the 

The house they were to go to was in 
Baker-street, belonging to a person Lam- 
bert knew, and which was to be had on 
ver}^ reasonable terms till Easter, the 
owners occupying the lower floor ; and 
being quiet, respectable people, Lambert 
hoped they would, in many ways, be of 
use to their tenants. Lambert, himself, 
was to remain wdth them for the present, 
until, in short, they were settled in their 
new abode. 

The day on which Mrs. Lushington 
and Lucy were finally to leave Stanhope- 
street at length arrived. It was a dark, 
dismal, snowy afternoon in January. For 
some time previous to their departure, 
Lucy was not to be found. She had shut 
herself up in her father's study, there 
alone to shed tears of misery, which could 
not be controlled or witnessed. Through 
Ked Watson's intervention, she had ap- 
plied for, and obtained permission to take 


away with her the little black clock which 
stood on the chimney-piece in that room : 
she had hid it under her cloak, and was 
taking a farewell look of each well-known 
object around, when Lambert, guessing 
where she was, knocked at the door. 
" The carriage is all ready, ma'am," said 
he, " and Mrs. Lushington is coming 
down stau's." 

Lucy started up, and hastened to her 
mother. She drew her arm within hers, 
grasping her hand tight within her own, 
to steady her steps ; for at last, even Mrs. 
Lushington was totally overpowered, and 
her sobs were piteous to hear, although, 
possibly, they were not caused by exactly 
the same feelings as those which now 
nearly suffocated her suffering daughter. 
No one, indeed, could, at that moment, 
have beheld that mother and daughter 
unmoved. The large, spacious house, all 
bespeaking former worldly prosperity, 
now in total silence and darkness ; the 
broad, pompous-looking staircase, which 


they now, for the last time, descended ; 
the deserted look of every room, and the 
many painful circumstances which each 
object recalled, were almost too much for 
Lucy's enfeebled nerves. Mrs. Lushing- 
ton had stopped for a minute at the top 
of the stairs. The remembrance of the 
last time when she had from thence be- 
held Eustace, rushed on Lucy's memory. 
That evening when he had taken his final 
leave of her ; when, on leaning over the 
banisters at that very spot, she had seen 
him cross the hall below, from his uncle's 
room to the house-door (that door which 
was never to open to him again) ; she 
almost fancied that even now she beheld 
his slim, somewhat-bending figure — heard 
the well-known sound of his peculiar, 
slow, long striding footstep. 

At length, they reached the threshold. 
A hackney-coach, with various boxes and 
parcels piled up inside, was standing 
ready. Mrs. Lushington was helped into 
it; Lucy followed. Lambert got up on 


the seat beside the driver. The woman 
put in charge of the house, made her 
parting curtsey, as she closed the hall-door 
upon them. And thus ended the " mag- 
nificent " Mrs. Lushingtons dream of 
fashionable hfe. 



The day fixed upon for the trial of Mr. 
Lusliington at last arrived. At an early 
hour of the morning, the entrance of the 
Court was besieged by crowds of persons 
waiting until the doors were opened, so 
great was the interest felt by all classes 
to gain admittance into the Court. Com- 
mercial men of all kinds were there, eager 
to be present at the trial of one who had 
borne so high a character among them- 
selves, now arraigned on a charge of so 
extraordinary a kind ! indeed, it would be 
difficult to find any case in the annals of 
justice, which ever excited a more lively 
and universal interest. The station in 
life occupied by the prisoner — the nature 
of the crime laid to his charge — -the awful 


punishment which awaited liim, if gnilty — 
together vnih. the wide-spread ruin which 
the failure of the house had caused — all 
combined to invest the business with an 
importance and interest hitherto almost 
unknown. The ™w taken by different 
classes varied according to the manner in 
which their own interest or credit was 
mixed up with the case. Commercial 
men in general, and bankers especially, 
were very violent against the prisoner ; 
and in the city, many were the hopes 
expressed, that he would, if the charge 
were proved, meet the extreme punish- 
ment which the speakers declared their 
conviction that he merited. He had shaken 
public confidence in themselves, and they 
were as merciless in their judgment, as 
men usually are who have suffered by the 
crune. Those who had lost money by the 
failure of the bank, for the most part, 
viewed the case in the same hght; al- 
though here and there, even among these, 
were to be found less vindictive spirits, 


wlio hoped that even if not acquitted, the 
prisoner might yet escape the extreme 
awful penalty of the law. In other 
circles, and among those in no way in- 
volved in the failure of the bank, many 
and various views were taken of the ques- 
tion, according as the temper of mind 
leaned to the side of mercy and charity, 
or suspicion and severity. Even to those 
who were inclined to hope the best, tliere 
seemed, indeed, but too much cause to 
beheve the truth of the charge. All, 
therefore, looked anxiously to the day of 
trial, which was to make known to the 
world the real truth, and to decide the fate 
of the accused. 

And that day was now at last come. 
After several hours of expectation, during 
which, every circumstance had been dis- 
cussed over and over again by the as- 
sembled crowd, the doors of the Court 
were thrown open, and in a few moments, 
the large room was filled to overflowing. 

A short time elapsed before the Judge 


took his seat on the bench, and when he 
did so, several matters of form were gone 
through, which seemed interminable to 
the eager throng who filled the Court. 
There was then a hush and a pause, du- 
ring which Mr. Lushington was led into 
Court, and placed in the prisoner's dock. 
There were many persons present who 
had known him more or less intimately ; 
yet those who were least acquainted with 
him, were startled to observe the altera- 
tion in his appearance since his apprehen- 
sion. His figure, naturally peculiarly 
upright and commanding, was somewhat 
bent, his walk was unsteady, and he leant 
heavily upon the arm of the officer who 
accompanied him. His hair, which, con- 
sidering he was nearly sixty, had hitherto 
wonderfully retained its natural colour, 
had become grizzled ; his eyes were sunk ; 
his forehead seemed contracted with pain ; 
and there was an expression of such ex- 
treme mental suffering upon his counte- 
nance, that the heart of the most unfeel- 


mg spectator could not fail to have been 
touched by a gleam of compassion. The 
eyes of all were fixed upon him, as he 
passed slowly the dock, and took his 
stand at the bar, against which he leaned 
for support. He was so evidently unfit 
to continue standing, that a chair was 
immediately placed for him, into which 
he sank, wholly overpowered by the dis- 
grace of his situation. 

The jury having been sworn, the Attor- 
ney-Greneral on behalf of the Crown, rose 
and addressed the Court. 

" The prisoner at the bar," he said, " is 
the principal partner in the house of 
Lushington, Bradford, and Strickland, 
bankers, of Fenchui'ch- street. The house 
has been established for many years, and 
the father and grandfather of the prisoner 
were both partners in it. On the death 
of his father, the prisoner immediately 
succeeded to his position at the head of 
the firm ; and from that time, nearly the 
whole responsibility of the house devolved 


on him, owing to liis great experience in 
business, and comparative superiority as 
to its details, over the other partners, who 
were almost unacquainted with commer- 
cial transactions. In 1819, the prisoner 
became, jointly with the informant, Mr. 
Hamilton, trustee of Charles Desborough, 
of Newton Grange, in the county of Surrey, 
for the sum of 20,000/. vested by him (in 
the names of these two trustees) in the 
Three per Cent. Imperial Annuities, for 
the use of Ellen Desborough, his wife, and 
her children, which 20,000/. stock was 
put into the hands of Mr. Lushington, to 
be placed to the credit of Mrs. Desbo- 
rough, Mr. Lushington continuing regu- 
larly to pay her the dividends. In May 
1826, application was made at the Bank 
of England, professing to be on behalf of 
Mr. Hamilton and the prisoner, as trus- 
tees, to seU out this 20,000/. by a power 
of attorney. I shall shortly call Mr. 
Hamilton, who w4U tell you that he was 
party to no such deed, and that his signa- 


ture is a forgery. He will also tell yon 
that tlie prisoner, in conversation with 
him a few months back, stated that this 
stock was still standing in their joint 
names, when he mnst have known that it 
had been sold out five years before ; and 
Mr. Hamilton will prove that the interest 
upon it was regularly paid to Mrs. Des- 
borough, on behalf of her two trustees, 
notwithstanding the stock had been so 
long sold." 

The Attorney-Greneral here entered at 
length into some legal technicalities neces^t/^^/V 
to give efiect to a power of attorney, "all 
of wdiich," he continued, "were fulfilled 
by the prisoner alone, purporting to be 
executed by himself and Edward Hamilton, 
and attested by two clerks in his own house. 
This is only a part of the case which I 
have to lay before you, but even supposing 
that it rested here, it is pregnant with, the 
most powerful and conclusive evidence 
against the prisoner. There is, however, 
a document of a character so extraordinary. 


SO perfectly unparalleled, so singularly 
complete in all its parts, and so conclusive 
in its effects, as to leave not a shadow of 
a doubt as to tlie share taken in this trans- 
action by the prisoner at the bar. At the 
time the prisoner was apprehended, his 
ke^^s were taken from him by the officer 
who apprehended him, and his papers, 
both at the bank and at his private resi- 
dence, were immediately searched by that 
officer and the sohcitor of the Bank of 
England. In the prisoner's study, in 
his house in Stanhope -street, w^as disco- 
vered in one of the drawers of his wTiting 
table, a leather messenger's box, with a 
Bramah lock, and when it was opened, 
several papers belonging to the prisoner 
were found on it, among others, the ex- 
traordinary document of which I have 
just spoken, and which I shall now read 
to you." 

The Attorney-Greneral here proceeded to 
give the names of fourteen individuals 
whose property the prisoner had obtained 



and disposed of in tlie same manner, to the 
amount of 170,000^. The whole of this 
paper was in the handwriting of the 
prisoner, as were also the words which he 
would now read to them. 

"In order to keep up the credit of our 
house, I have forged powers of attorney, 
and have thereupon sold out all these sums 
without the knowledge of any of my 
partners. I have respectively placed the 
dividends as they became due to account, 
but I never posted them. 

" (Signed) Fred. Llshington. 
''1th May, 1826." 

To this was subjoined a postcript, also 
in the prisoner's handwriting. 

" The Bank began first to refuse our 
acceptances, and thereby to destroy our 
credit ; they shall therefore smart for it. 
" (Signed) Fred. Lushington." 

" A more extraordinary document to be 
discovered under such circumstances, never 


existed ! Was tliere ever a record of fraud 
more intelligible, and more negligently 
guarded? AVlien tliis singular paper was 
written by the prisoner, it was apparently 
for some immediate purpose \ it might be 
that at that particular period he had some 
intention to abscond, and was desirous of 
acquitting his partners of all participation 
in the frauds which he had committed, by 
a document which was so sinc^ular in 
itself, and so fatally conclusive in its cha- 
racter. I forbear, gentlemen of the jury, 
to make any further observations upon this 
extraordinary case, as I feel that it is one 
that requires no comment ; and I am con- 
fident that you will do yom* duty in the 
verdict that you will retm-n, without per- 
mitting any feelings of compassion to- 
wards the unhappy prisoner at the bar to 
interfere with the decision which justice 
requires of you." 

The Attorney- General uttered these 
words with much emotion, and sat down. 
He had been personally acquainted vAi\\ 

K 2 


Mr. Lushington, and evidently felt much 
pain in having to conduct the prosecution. 

During this address to the jury, Mr. 
Lushington sat with his head leaning on 
his hand, and his eyes fixed on vacancy, 
like one in a waking dream. At its close, 
a slight flush passed over his face, and his 
eye rested for an instant on the Attorney- 
General. He seemed to observe the emo- 
tion with which his speech had closed, 
and tears forced themselves into his eyes. 

The witnesses were then called in sup- 
port of the charge. Mr. Hamilton was the 
first witness. He deposed to the fact of 
his being co -trustee with Mr. Lushington 
for the 20,000/. Stock. The interest, he 
said, had been regularly paid by Mr. 
Lushington, and he himself had no sus- 
picion of anything being wrong, until a 
short time back, when he was informed at 
the Bank that the stock had been sold 
out some years before. He also swore 
that he had never signed the power of 
attorney, and that he had never had any 


conversation with Mr. Lusliington on the 

While Mr. Hamilton gave his evidence, 
Mr. Lushington sat vdih. his face averted, 
seeming to shrink from meetinor the eve 
of the witness. The clerk of the Bank 
who had received Mr. Lnshington's apph- 
cation to act upon the power of attorney 
was then called. He swore that Mr. 
Lnshington had attended before him in 
person at the Bank, and he produced the 
slip of paper, written and signed by ]\Ir. 
Lushington, demanding to act upon the 
power of attorney. 

Edward Watson, and the other clerk 
in the banking-house, were then called. 
They both swore that they had never 
witnessed the deed in question, and that 
theii' signatures were forged. They also 
swore to Mr. Lushington's handwriting 
on the slip of paper and in the tilling up 
of the power of attome3\ Poor Xed was 
dreadfully overcome at having to give his 
evidence against his father's friend, his 


own patron, the uncle of Eustace Grey, 
the father of Miss Lucy ; but he gave it, 
as well as his excessive agitation would 
permit, in an honest and straightforward 
manner. He was required to state what 
had passed with reference to the entry of 
the payment made on the 1 st of June by 
Mr. Hamilton, and he distinctly proved 
that he had made this entry at Mr. Lush- 
ington's own dictation. He was also 
called upon to swear to Mr. Lushington's 
handwriting and signature to the extra- 
ordinary document read by the Attorney- 
General. He had not been present in 
court during the speech of the Attorney- 
General, and when the paper was put into 
his hand, it was quite new to him. 

" Eead that," said the lawyer who 
was examining him, " and tell the jury 
whether it is in the prisoner's hand- 

Ned cast his eye over the names and 
sums placed against them, and proceeded 
to read the words at the foot of the page. 


Then, instead of answering the question 
of the counsel, he stood as if thunder- 
struck ; the paper dropped from his hand, 
and he gazed at his patron with a look of 
mingled astonishment and horror, as 
though he would have asked from him an 
explanation of that which he could not, 
would not, beheve to be true. 

But Mr. Lushington shrank from his 
startled gaze, and refused to meet his eye ; 
Ned then looked from the prisoner to the 
counsel utterly bewildered. The latter 
repeated his question, " Is that the hand- 
writing of the prisoner ?" 

Ned took up the paper, and scanned it 
once more with care, and then at last he 
said, in a very low voice, " I believe that 
is Mr. Lushington' s writing." 

" Can you not swear that it is ?" said 
the counsel. 

" No, I cannot swear to it," was the 
answer ; " because I cannot believe that 
Mr. Lushington ever wrote it ; he is not 
capable of such a crime." 


" Supposing you liad never seen any- 
tliing but the signature, would you have 
sworn to that as being the prisoner's?" 
inquired the counsel. 

Ned looked at it again, and tuiiiing 
deadly pale, said, " Yes, I could have 
sworn then." 

" That will do, sir," said the lawyer ; 
" you may go." 

Another clerk was then called, who 
swore to the writing as being that of Mr. 
Lushington, and the soKcitor of the Bank 
of England proved the finding of the 
document in the box, locked up in one of 
the drawers of Mr. Lushington's study, in 
Stanhope-street. One or two other wit- 
nesses were examined, and the case for the 
prosecution closed. 

Mr. Lushington had retained no counsel 
to conduct his defence, such having been 
the advice of Mr. Everard, his solicitor, to 
whom he had fully disclosed the real state 
of his affairs. He had, however, drawn 


up a statement, intendiDg to read it in 
Court. All eyes were turned towards him, 
when the judge, addressing him, said, 
" Prisoner at the bar, you can now say 
anything you think fit to the jury and the 

Mr. Lushington started on hearing 
himself called upon by the judge, and 
rising from his feet, he drew from his 
pocket the paper which he had previously 
prepared ; his hands, however, trembled so 
violently, it was some time before he could 
attempt to read it. There were few among 
those who looked upon his eftbrts at compo- 
sui'e who did not feel pity for one who, if 
he had been guilty of great crimes, had, it 
was plain, also suffered long and deeply 
for them. As he stood there, covered 
with shame, and broken do^\Ti by the 
weight of conscious guilt, his very misery 
pleaded with the spectators for compassion, 
and the heart must have been hard in- 
deed upon which that sight produced no 
impression. Years appeared to have passed 


over tlie prisoner since his arrest ; while 
the care-worn expression of his counte- 
nance, and the deep furrows of his con- 
tracted brow, spoke of the suffering which 
he had abeady endured, and which 
awakened in the minds of those who 
looked upon him that pecuHar interest 
and commiseration which great sorrows 
seldom fail to produce. 

Twice he began to read, and twice 
his trembling voice refused to give utter- 
ance to the words ; and with a mournful 
expression, which must have touched the 
heart even of his greatest enemy, he again 
sat down. Mr. Everard hastened to his 
side, and begged the governor of the prison, 
who was standing near him, to procure 
a glass of water. It was brought, and 
seemed to revive him; and, assisted by 
Mr. Everard, the prisoner again rose, and 
resumed the reading of the paper he held 
in his hand. His voice, at first, was low, 
but the profound silence which reigned in 
the court enabled those near him to hear, 


and as tie proceeded, lie became more calm 
and collected, and his voice steadier. 

" I must entreat the Court will grant 
me its merciful consideration," said the 
prisoner, '' while, without attempting to 
deny the awful charge brought against me, 
I state some circumstances which, al- 
though they cannot palliate — much less 
excuse — the crime with which I am 
charged, may yet explain the motives 
which led to it. I am guilty, and I will 
not make my sin greater by attempting 
to deny it. But before you condemn me 
wholly, hear what were the temptation 
and difl&culties by which I was surrounded. 
It must be well known to you how great 
was the distress caused tln-oughout this 
country, but especially in the mercantile 
world, by the failure of Empson's house. 
It operated fatally upon our own ; there 
was a run upon it, which it was only able 
to meet by large advances from foreign 
houses, made at great disadvantage to 
ourselves. From that time om- embar- 


rassments date. Shortly after tlie failure 
of Empson's bank, another house of 
bushiess with wliich we were connected 
also failed. Our acceptances were refused 
by the Bank of England, and our credit 
injured. By means, however, of aid from 
the foreign houses to which I have alluded, 
cm- house was kept going ; but this was 
only postponing the evil hour. Added to 
all this, a succession of disasters occurred 
through the imprudence of a leading 
member of the firm, who is since deceased. 
Things went on in this manner for a time, 
every year producing fresh cause for 
anxiety. During these numerous and 
trying difficulties, the house was nearly 
without resources ; and the whole burden 
of management faUing upon me, I was 
driven to a state of distraction, in which 
I could meet with no relief from my 
partners, and, in desperation, I sought 
resources where I could ; and so long as 
they were provided, and the credit of the 
house supported, no inquiries were made, 


either as to the manner in which they 
were procured, or as to the sources from 
whence they were derived." 

Here the speaker's voice faltered, and 
he became unable to proceed; he sank 
down in his chair, seemingly overcome by 
his feelings. The Attorney- General im- 
mediately rose, and, addressing the judge, 
said — 

" My lord, I am sure that the Court will 
be ready to grant that indulgence to the 
prisoner which his weak state seems to 
demand, and give him time to recover 
himself, so as to continue his statement." 

The judge assented, and a pause ensued, 
during which Mr. Lushington appeared 
to have regained his composm-e, and, rising 
once more, he continued. A flush of colour 
had now returned to his face, and he stood 
erect, like the Frederick Lushington of 
former days. It seemed as if he was 
already relieved of the load which had 
oppressed him for years. 

" In the midst of these calamities," he 


continued, " not unknown to Mr. Strick- 
land, he quitted England, and continued in 
France on liis own private business for two 
years, leaving me to struggle on as well as 
I could with difficulties almost insurmount- 
able. Having thus exposed all the neces- 
sities of the house, I solemnly declare that 
all the monies temporarily raised by me 
were applied, not in anyone instance for any 
sej)arate purposes or expenses of my own, 
but in every case they were immediately 
placed to the credit of the house in Fen- 
church-street, and applied to the payment 
of the pressing demands upon it. This 
fact does not rest on my own assertion, 
as the transactions referred to are entered 
on the books now in possession of the assig- 
nees, and to which I have had no access 
since my apprehension. These books, I 
understand, are now in Court, and will 
confirm the truth of my statement ; and 
to whatever account all the sums may be 
entered, whether to that of stock, of 
exchequer bills, or to my private account, 


the whole went to the general funds of 
the banking-house. I have been, I know, 
accused of extravagance in the pubHc 
prints. I take heaven to mtness, that 
in my private expenses I have strictly 
kept to the proceeds of the Elsmere 
property. All my friends know how I 
Hved. Indeed, I had no temptations to 
expense ; both my sons dead, with one 
only daughter !" 

The prisoner's voice trembled, and he 
stopped for a minute ; but again over- 
coming his emotion, he continued : 

" I acknowledge the truth of the accusa- 
tions brouofht ao^ainst me. To save the 
credit of the bank I possessed myself of the 
sums stated in the document which has been 
read to the Court, intending to replace them 
whenever the state of our affairs would 
permit me to do so. I am deeply sensible 
of the heinousness of the crime wliich I 
thus committed. I do not seek to ex- 
tenuate it, but I trust the Court will take 
into consideration the great difficulties 


against which I had to struggle, and 
the fearful temptations which surrounded 

Mr. Lushington sat down. A buz, ex- 
pressive of commiseration, almost of ad- 
miration, ran through the crowded court. 
The straightforward, manly statement 
made by the prisoner, no way endeavour- 
ing to deny, or even palUate his offence — 
the nameroas extenuating circumstances 
also of the case — induced many to alter 
their opinion with regard to the crime 
with which he was charged, or at least as 
to the degree of punishment due to it. 
Commiseration, in short, was the feehng 
which predominated ; and had his sentence 
depended on the mere feelings of those 
present, the prisoner would have been 

The judge then summed up the evi- 
dence at considerable length, after which 
the jury retu-ed to consider their verdict. 
They were absent about half-an-hour. It 
was a trying period to the prisoner. His 


mind was firm — he was fully prepared for 
the worst; but the agonies of mind he 
had undergone — the close confinement of 
a prison — all had preyed upon his health, 
afiecting his nerves ; and the dead calm 
and silence of this awful half-hour, after 
the previous excitement, as he sat a spec- 
tacle to all around, was almost more than 
his weakened frame could endure. 

At last, a movement among those who 
thronged the Cornet caused him to raise 
his head. The jury had returned ! A 
dead silence reigned throughout the Court. 
Mr. Lushington, apparently making a 
great efibrt, rose, and advanced towards 
the front of the dock. The names of the 
jury were called over, and the question 
was put to them, "How say you? Are 
you agreed upon yom- verdict ? Is the 
prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty ?" 
cried the clerk of the Cornet. All present 
held their breath, to hear the reply of the 
foreman — " Guilty of uttering the forged 
instrument^ knowing it to he forged'' 



Every eye was now turned from tlie 
speaker to the prisoner, who stood, still in 
the same attitude, gazing at the jury. 
Perhaps, even unconsciously to himself, 
he had cherished a hope that his sentence 
might have been accompanied with a re- 
commendation to mercy. His " spirit 
was willing " to submit to his fate, " but 
the flesh was weak." For a minute he 
stood in the attitude of expectation, and 
then, clasping his hands, as he uttered 
a faint exclamation, he sank overpowered 
into his seat. The Attorney-General rose, 
and spoke in a low tone to the Judge, Vv^ho 
immediately afterwards addressed thei 
prisoner by name, — " Frederick Lush- 

On hearing his name thus solemnly 
pronounced, Mr. Lushington, catching 
hold of the arm of the governor of the jail, 
who was standing beside him, again leant 
forward to hear his final sentence. 

The Judge proceeded : "The learned At- 
torney-General does not feel it necessary, 


in the discharge of his public duty, to 
proceed further with the indictments that 
have been preferred against you. It is no 
part of my painful duty to pronounce the 
awful sentence of the law, which must fol- 
low the verdict which has just been re- 
corded ; that unpleasing task wiU devolve 
on the learned Eecorder, at the termina- 
tion of the sessions. I should, however, 
desert my duty as a Christian magistrate, 
if I did not implore you, with aU kindness, 
to bethink yourself seriously of your latter 
end. According to the institutions of this 
country, the prerogative of mercy is vested 
in the Crown. With that I have nothing 
to do. I do not say that in your unhappy 
case the extension of mercy is impossible ; 
but I am afraid, after the many serious 
acts which, under your own handwriting, 
have been proved against you, involving 
so many persons in ruin, you would only 
deceive yourself by indulging in any hope 
of mercy on this side of the grave. Do 
not, therefore, flatter yourself with expec- 



tations which may, I had almost said must 
be disappointed; but, in the short time 
wliich in all probability is allotted to you 
here upon earth, tm'n your mind to the 
contemplation of your awful situation. 
Take the best steps in your power to 
make your peace with God, and use all 
your exertions to become acquainted with 
Him and his all-gracious mercy/' 

The Judge paused. The prisoner, who 
had listened with the most painful and 
absorbed attention to every word of this 
solemn address, at its conclusion gazed 
for an instant at the Judge ; then seeing 
him rise to leave the bench, a deadly hue 
spread itself over his countenance, and 
without uttering a word, he fell back 
senseless in the arms of his jailor. 

Mr. Everard and Ned Watson both 
rushed to his assistance, and he was car- 
ried out of Court. The fresh air and 
some restorative soon re^dved him, and he 
was reconducted to his prison. On his 
arrival there, as he was preparing to 


ascend the stairs leading to liis apartment, 
assisted by Mr. Everard, he saw poor 
Ned, who had shrunk back totally over- 
powered. "Ned," said Mr. Lushington, 
with a kind smile, " wiU you lend me your 
arm to get up stairs ?" And then he added 
in a lower tone, " You would have helped 
me if you could, I saw ; but you did your 
duty, and I thank you for your wish to 
serve me. Thank Grod, your father knows 
nothing of all this." 

On reaching his apartment, Mr. Lush- 
ington sank into the nearest chair. " If 
Mr. Eussell is here," said he, in a faint 
voice, " teU him I should be very thankful 
if he would come to me." Then, making 
sign to Mr. Everard that he wished to be 
left, he covered his face with both his 
hands, and his head fell on his knees. 



Mr. Everard, and several of those of Mr. 
Lushington's former city friends, who not 
having suffered by his crime, could only pity 
him for his misfortunes, indeed admire him 
for his fortitude and resignation, strongly 
urged him to petition the Sovereign for a 
mitigation of his sentence, but his pride 
induced him to resist their soHcitations. 
He knew he had incurred the severest 
penalty of the law, and he could not bring 
himself to sue for a pardon which he was 
aware he did not deserve, and to run the 
risk of imploring a favour which he felt 
sure would not be granted. Perhaps, too, 
he had not moral courage sufficient to face 
a future existence of disgrace, poverty, or 
even of insignificance. There was but 


one interest wliicli stiU bound him to this 
world — his daughter I his poor, friend- 
less, helpless Lucy I " But to Eustace 
Grrej, under God's providential care, I 
consign her !" he said. " He will be a 
better guardian and protector to her than 
her disgraced father. The Almighty, who 
orders aU things here below, will watch 
over my poor fatherless child !" 

Had ]\Ir. Lushington been placed in 
other circumstances in early life, he would 
probably have been a very different man, 
and would have met with a very different 
fate. He had noble quahties, but they 
were early stifled by worldly objects and 
interests. His marriage had been pecu- 
liarly unfortunate ; and his consequent 
disappointment — his humihation indeed, 
in that quarter, had soured liis temper 
and hardened his feehngs' for a time\ 
even steeling his heart^ against those who 
might have filled up that blank in his 
affections. He would not for long be at 
the pains of becoming acquainted with his 


daughter, from the dread of meeting with 
disappointment there also ; and even 
Eustace he shrunk from, until the latter 
had, by his endearing qualities, actually 
taken his uncle's heart by storm. If 
Mr. Lushington had been sooner brought 
under the influence of that nephew's ex- 
alted character, and truly Christian prin- 
ciples, how different might have been 
his fate ! As his intimacy with Eustace 
increased, so did Mr. Lushington' s long- 
ing desire to extricate liimself from the 
hopeless thraldom of iniquity in which he 
was entangled, until the wearing misery 
of his mind became intolerable. It was 
to this constant mental irritation that 
many a harsh word, even to his unoffending 
Lucy, was to be attributed; for aU the 
while he loved her dearly — was even 
proud of her ! 

Strange as it may appear, after the first 
shock of his arrest, and the dreadful dis- 
closure of his disgrace was over, he ac- 
tually felt relieved ! happier ! He had no 


longer a part to play — a secret to con- 

How welcome to such a mind, bowed 
dowTi under a sense of sin and shame, 
must have been the hopes and promises 
of the gospel ! To be told of a Divine 
Mediator, who, notwithstanding all his 
many offences, both towards God and his 
fellow-creatures, still oflfered him salvation, 
peace, and joy in another world ! To be 
assured, that although his sins were red as 
crunson, yet, through a Saviour's atoning 
blood, they would become white as snow ! 
The once proud, haughty Frederick Lush- 
ington caught at these offers, as the drown- 
ing wretch does to the plank which is to 
save him. The hope of pardon brought 
him a humble penitent at the foot of the 
Cross, and thus his prison-house became 
to him a passage, — an entrance into the 
gates of heaven. So that, during the 
last few weeks of his sojourning upon 
earth (although with death, and an ig- 
nominious death, immediately before him), 


Mr. Lushington was a far happier man 
than for many a year of his past existence ! 
or than he, probably, ever would have been, 
had life now been granted and even honour 
restored to him. 

Having resisted his friends' solicitations 
to petition the Sovereign for a commuta- 
tion of the punishment due to his offence, 
Mr. Lushington was brought up before 
the Eecorder of London at the end of 
the sessions, and then received his final 

His last day upon earth was now there- 
fore fixed. He had signified his wish to see 
his daughter on the day previous, and 
Mr. Eussell accordingly went to fetch her. 
Except by the ghastly hue of her coun- 
tenance, and the nervous trembling of her 
icy cold hands, no one would have dis- 
covered the misery Lucy was enduring. 

During their long, dreadful drive from 
Baker-street to Newgate, Mr. EusseU 
did not attempt to speak to her. On 
their arrival at the prison, the usual 


forms were gone through for their ad- 
mittance. Mr. Eussell accompanied Lucy 
to the door of the room in which her father 
was confined, and closing it after her, left 
them together. She rushed into his arms, 
and it was long before she had courage 
to raise her eyes from his breast, on which 
her head had fallen. She dreaded seeing 
his much-loved countenance. 

" My poor girl!" cried Mr. Lushington, 
as he fondly kissed her forehead. " Lift 
up your head, let me once more see your 
dear face." 

Lucy did so ; she shuddered on behold- 
ing the havoc occasioned by mental suf- 
fering on her father's appearance, even 
since she had last seen him. He was 
totally changed. The lofty bearing, for 
which he was so remarkable, was gone. 
He was bent, pale, and emaciated; his 
hands trembled ; but there was upon his 
countenance a look of serenity, almost of 
joy, which Lucy had never seen on it 


" Oh, dear, dear papa !" slie exclaimed, 
as she threw her arms round his neck, 
" I am sure you are happy ;" and she 
burst into tears — tears of gratitude. 

" Yes, thank Grod, I am happy. I am 
at peace — blessed peace." 

He sank down on a chair, and drawing 
Lucy to him, she sat on his knee, her 
arm entwined round his neck, her cheek 
resting against his. And for a consider- 
able time the father and daughter thus 
remained conversing in a low voice ; the 
two turnkeys in attendance having gone 
to the further end of the apartment. At 
length the door opened, and the Ordinary 
of the prison, Mr. Bradford, Mr. Eussell, 
and Ned Watson entered. Lucy started ; 
she looked at them with a terrified ex- 
pression of countenance, and convulsively 
grasped her father's hands. 

" Don't be alarmed, my child," said Mr. 
Lushington, "it is Mr. Anson, who is 
come to administer the Holy Sacrament 
to me. I wished so much to receive it 


with you. It is the first time we have 
ever done so, Lucy, and it will be the last 
in this world; but not, I trust, the last 
time we shall meet together before om- 
Grod and Saviour." 

Lucy said not a word ; she fell on her 
knees beside her father. Mr. Lushington 
then suddenly perceiving Mr. Bradford, 
and holding out both his hands to him, 
" Bradford," he said, " may God bless 
you for this kindness, for I feel now sure 
I have your forgiveness." 

Mr. Bradford was much affected, and 
warmly returned the pressure of his late 
partner's hand. After those words, not a 
sound, save that of the voice of Christ's 
minister, broke the solemn silence of that 
prison room. As soon as the service was 
concluded, Mr. Bradford (after once more 
pressing the hand of Mr. Lushington) 
accompanied by Mr. Anson, the Ordinary, 
and Ned Watson, all left the apartment. 

Mr. Lushington looked at Mr. Eussell; — 


it appeared to be an agreed-upon signal 
between them. 

" Lucy," said her father, once more 
drawing her towards him, and throwing 
his arm around her, as he put a letter 
into her hand, " you will give that to 
your mother ! If ever you see dear Eus- 
tace again, teU him, I have left this world 
in peace. — And now — Lucy — dear child 

— farewell ! " 

A faint cry bluest from Lucy's lips as 
she uttered, " Oh, dear, dear papa !" and 
fell back senseless in Mr. EusseU's arms. 

She was immediately carried down 

stairs, and, still unconscious of all around 

her, placed in the carriage, which was to 

convey her back to her now desolate home! 

The father and daughter had bade each 

other farewell for ever here below ! 

After Lucy's departure, Mr. Lushing- 
ton's mind seemed to leave this world 
altogether, and to be entirely absorbed 
in the contemplation of eternity. Mr. 


Eussell remained with him nearly the 
whole of the night. As the clocks of 
the different churches around proclaimed 
the advancing hours, his abstraction 
appeared to increase, but he did not lose 
that serenity and calmness of demeanour, 
which he indeed preserved to the very 
last. He often alluded to the miserable 
state of mind under which he had for 
years laboured compared with his present 
peace and happiness, in consequence of his 
entire reliance on the mercy of Grod. 

DayUght had scarcely yet penetrated 
within the grated windows of Newgate 
prison next morning, when the aldermen 
and sheriffs entered Mr. Lushington's 
apartment, to announce, that the hour 
for the fatal close of his sufferings ap- 
proached. At .the noise of the opening 
door, he raised his eyes and immediately 
left his seat, signifying he was prepared 
to follow them, and he was conducted 
to the condemned room — Mr. Eussell 
on one side of him and the Ordinary of 


the prison on the other, guiding his steps, 
for he kept his eyes closely shut, as they 
thus passed along the gloomy passages of 
the prison to the place of execution. Sud- 
denl}^ the sounds of the funeral bell struck 
on Mr. Lushington's ears. He started, 
and seemed to make an effort to pray, but 
his lips failed to produce any utterance. 
His step, however, was still firm, and 
his manner quite composed. Mr. Anson 
then began reading the solemn funeral 
service : — " I am the Eesurrection and 
the Life, saith the Lord, he that believeth 
on me, though he were dead, yet shall he 
live," and he continued reading it till they 
reached the front of the scaffold, the St. 
Sepulchre church and Newgate chapel 
bells the while responding mournfully to 
each other. Mr. EusseU then took leave 
of the prisoner, who, for a moment, opened 
his eyes, convulsively grasping Mr. Eus- 
seU' s hand. The next he advanced firmly 
to the middle of the platform, and from 
the movement of his lips, appeared to be 


engaged in fervent prayer, raising his 
pinioned hands once or twice as if in 

The executioner had soon completed 
his preparations — the signal was given — 
the drop fell — and this world closed for 
ever on the once proud, prosperous Fre- 
derick Lushington. 




Some little time before his trial came on, 
Mr. Lusliington liad, as lie told Lucy, 
written a farewell letter to his nephew. 
It was as follows : dated Newgate Prison, 
January 20, 1832. 

" You wiU be startled by the date of my 
letter, and I grieve to think of the pain it 
will give you. It is but too true ; I am 
here a prisoner, charged with a capital 
crime, having broken the laws of my 
country ; and I acknowledge that (as the 
law is) my probable final sentence wiU be 
just, for I have been guilty of forgery, 
and I know the penalty is an ignominious 
death. I have been tempted to this crime 
in order to support the credit, indeed, I 
may say, the very existence of the bank to 
which I belonged — to which my father 


and grandfather belonged before me. 
Yon, Eustace, cannot, I know, enter into 
the feelings which have impelled me to 
adopt such a course — your mind, happily 
for you, having been turned to better 
things ; and perhaps now, vriili death so 
near — perhaps even / see it all in a diife- 
rent hght from what I have done. But 
it is now too late with regard to this 
world; I trust I may, in another, find 
that mercy and forgiveness which I do 
not expect, and shall not sue for here. 
Greatly as I have sinned, thank Grod it 
has not been for my own private advan- 
tage. My hands are clean. Not one 
farthing of that for which I have risked 
my credit, my reputation, my life even, 
has been for my own behoof My con- 
science is there perfectly clear. You icill 
— you ML'ST condemn me, I know ; but I 
am not afraid to meet my God, and that 
is all that now concerns me. Alas, no ! 
it is not aU — would to God it were ! You, 
Eustace, and my poor ^irl, are earthly 

M 2 


interests still too painfully strong ; and I 
now write to intreat you, by all the love 
you have for Lucy (indeed, I think I 
may say, even for myself, unworthy as I 
am of it), to return immediately to Eng- 
land. More pressing duties, believe me, 
call you back, than those to which you 
have fancied yourself appointed. Come 
home, and save my poor child from dis- 
grace, destitution, despair ! all this is 
now in your power. For I have yet 
another sin on my conscience, which I 
must now confess to you — one which 
weighs heavier upon it at this moment 
than all the others even. I have always 
(from some strange motive which I now 
can scarcely comprehend myself) concealed 
the truth from you with regard to your 
future prospects. At my death (an event 
now so near, which will, indeed, probably 
have taken place even before this letter 
leaves England), it is you, Eustace, who 
willy at least who should, come into pos- 
session of the Elsmere property, and not 


Lucy, as is generally supposed. I have 
studied my uncle's Avill carefully, and 
though ambiguously worded, I am sure I 
am right in this its interpretation. I am 
aware that in common honesty, I should 
have made you acquainted with this long 
ago. I had resolved to do so that very 
last evening you were under my roof, 
httle knowing it was to be the last. No 
one has any idea of this fact but myself, 
not even my good friend Watson. Lose 
not, then, I entreat you, a moment. Come 
and claim your own, and come and claim 
your Lucy. She is considered to be an 
heiress ; poor girl ! all she will inherit 
from her father will be his disgrace. 

" Oh, if I could but think all this wiH be 
as T wish, I should not have a feeling but 
of peace and joy on leaving this world ! 
I have had, beheve me, just retribution 
for my offences, even here. I do not 
think the pains of hell can be worse than 
what I have endured for years. My only 
moments of comfort, I may almost say. 


sometimes of actual enjoyment, have been 
in your society, Eustace. If I have a 
single good feeling within me, I owe it to 
your influence — to the influence of your 
noble character and example — I shall not 
divulge to anyone my conviction of the 
truth with regard to my uncle's will — I 
dare not ! I dare not raise a doubt with 
regard to his intentions before you are 
here to assert your rights ; for I know 
my uncle had other relations who might 
take advantage of the helpless, friendless 
situation in which my poor child is now 
placed, and put in their fancied claims. 
For Lucy's sake, then, if not for your 
own, I again entreat you not to lose a 
moment in returning to England; it is 
my last request. Heaven bless and re- 
ward you, dear Eustace ! it is still my 
hope, notwithstanding all my numberless 
heinous offences, that, through the mercy 
of my Saviour, I shall meet you in ano- 
ther, better world. 

" Frederick Lushington.'' 


AVitli this letter was subjoined one 
from Ned Watson, informing Eustace of 
the awful events which had taken place ; 
of his fears being greater than his hopes 
with regard to the final issue of the trial ; 
of his misery at being called upon to con- 
firm the justice of the accusations brought 
against his kind patron ; of Lucy's praise- 
worthy, magnanimous conduct; of his 
own father's illness ; and he ended his 
letter as Mr. Lushington did his — with 
entreatins: Eustace to make all haste back 
to England, to take care of poor Miss 

Ned made every possible inquiry at the 
missionary-house, and various offices in 
London and elsewhere, with regard to the 
surest and speediest mode of forwarding 
this packet ; and at last consigned it to the 
care of a young man on the point of leav- 
ing England for Calcutta, who promised to 
try and find out where Eustace Grrey was, 
and forward the letters to him without 
loss of time. But so difierent was the 


state of India, and tlie means of access to 
it twenty-five years ago, as well as facility 
of communication in that part of the 
world, from what it is now, that it was 
not until nearly a year and a-half after 
the packet left England, that it reached 
its destination. For months and months 
it wandered about dependent on mere 
chance means of progress, often, for a 
length of time, forgotten by those to 
whom it was from hand to hand intrusted, 
until it at last reached Eustace at the then 
remote missionary station at Burmah. Its 
contents nearly drove him to frenzy. He 
thought he had so far subdued every 
feeling, every affection, every interest 
connected with this world; that he had 
so disciplined his mind, that provided his 
dear Lucy were happy, he would con- 
tentedly (thankfully even) have heard of 
her union with another, so entirely had 
he given up every hope of ever beholding 
her again. But the appalling horrors 
contained in his uncle's farewell letter ; 


tlie uncertainty with regard to Lucy's 
present situation; her friendless, unpro- 
tected state, exposed to trials and dangers, 
which, even in his most anxious, despond- 
ing moments, he had never anticipated for 
her; all this was more than he could 
endure. Fortunately, he felt no doubt as 
to his present duty, whatever the result 
might be. He immediately left Burmah ; 
but again, from the many difficulties and 
impediments he had to encounter in his 
journey, both by land and water, months 
even elapsed before he reached Calcutta. 
The English papers there but too well 
confirmed the dreadful intelligence he had 
anticipated. In them he found every 
particular of his uncle's trial, sentence, 
and execution. His blood ran cold at the 
recital ! Eustace sincerely loved liis uncle. 
His heart, notwithstanding the little 
sympathy between them in many ways, 
had yearned towards him. And he was 
the father of Lucy! "Oh, Lucy!" he 
exclaimed, as the paper fell from his 


liands, " my God ! my God ! what is be- 
come of yon !" 

A merchantman was abont to sail for 
England, in which he obtained a passage ; 
bnt again, endless were the delays and 
even dangers of his voyage home, so that 
more than two years had elapsed from the 
time of Ned's letter leaving England, 
before Enstace landed at Portsmouth. 

How bewildering were his feelings on 
again finding himself in that much-loved 
native land to which he had, with such 
anguish, bidden adieu, nearly three years 
before, never hoping to revisit it again ! 
But bitter as were his feelings that day, 
when he took leave of Ned on board the 
Indiaman, and renounced all he loved on 
earth, yet wdllingly would he have ex- 
changed them (agonizing as they were at 
the time) for those which now nearly 
overwhelmed him. 

On landing, he set ofi" immediately for 
London, and went straight to Mr. Wat- 
son's house in Westminster, being the 


surest place, as he thought, to obtain in- 
formation. It appeared to be shut up, 
for he rang repeatedly before any one 
answered the summons, and he was about 
turning away, when at length the door 
was opened by a maid-servant. 

" Is Mr. Watson at home ?" inquhed 
Eustace, in a breathless voice. 

" Mr. Edward TTatson, do you mean ?" 
said the woman ; " no, he don't Hve here." 

"]N"o, his father, Mr. Watson," repeated 

The woman stared. " Mr. Watson? 
why, he has been dead, sir, above two 
years since, and Mr. Edward has left this 
altogether ; the house is for sale." 

And that was all the information the 
woman could give. She was a stranger, 
and knew notliing of the family. The 
heart of Eustace sank within him. His 
good, kind, old friend — he too was gone ! 
he also was no more ! The door was 
closed, but Eustace still stood before it ; 
he knew not which way to bend his steps. 


what to do, where to go. At length, he 
decided on proceeding to Fenchurch- street, 
to what had been his uncle's banking- 
house, hoping to hear something of Ned 
there. The house was now under another 
name. He pushed open the weU-known 
swing door, through which he had in 
former days so often entered with such 
repugnance, hating the very sight of the 
clerks at their desks ! But now, how 
thankful would he have been to have be- 
held a single face he had ever seen before ! 
All were total strangers to him. Eustace 
felt as if under the influence of a horrible 
dream, as if he was himself but a spectre 
revisiting, from another world, these 
altered scenes. The ghastly hue which 
had overspread his countenance, at last 
attracted the attention of one of the 
young men behind the counter, and he 
came up to him, inquiring whom he 
wanted, and whether he could do anything 
for him. Eustace pronounced the name 
of Watson. 


" Mr. Edward Watson ? Oli, lie is 
not here," said the clerk ; " indeed, I can't 
tell you even where he is to be found; 
but there is an old servant in the house 
who may, possibly, be able to give you 
some information ;" and leaving Eustace 
half bewildered with the many painful 
feelings wliich oppressed him, the clerk 
disappeared. His absence appeared inter- 
minable, but he at last returned, bringing 
with him a person whom Eustace im- 
mediately recognised as having acted as 
porter in former days to the house. The 
sight of him, recalling so vividly the past, 
was at that moment almost too much for 
poor Eustace. 

"What! Mr. Grey!" exclaimed the 
man; "is it you? Bless me, how you 
are changed! I am sure you can't le 
well. Here is a chair, pray sit down ; 
can I fetch you anything ?" 

" Oh, no, I want nothing," said Eustace, 
" except to know where Mr. Watson is to 
be found." 


" Mr. Edward, of course, you mean," 
said the man ; "I believe lie now lives 
62, Strand. His father — you know the 
good old gentleman — is gone. Poor 
man ! Although it is so long since I 
have seen you here, Mr. Grey (for I be- 
lieve you have been away abroad some- 
where), I suppose you know all that sad 
story. It was too much for poor Mr. 
Watson. It was kept from him as long 
as possible ; but at last he guessed the 
truth, and it fahly killed him ! and, in- 
deed, it was a blow to every one. Who 
could have thought it would ever have 
come to that !" And then, lowering his 
voice, as he looked round, to be sure no 
one was near, " / smv it all I I shall 
never forget it to my dying day." 

And the old man shuddered. Eustace 
seized hold of his hand to stop his sicken- 
ing narrative, and then, in a scarcely 
audible voice, said, " Mrs. Lushington, 
where is she ?" 

" God knows," replied the old man; 


" tliej have all disappeared. They went, 
at first, and lived in some out-of-the-way 
place in London, under a feigned name ; 
but I believe they moved from thence 
before long, and I have an idea that Mrs. 
Lushington is since dead, but I am not 

Eustace could bear no more ; his 
quivering lips could not have pronounced 
the name of Lucy. 

" You will, I dare say," continued the 
man, " learn more about them all from 
Mr. Ned ; for here we are all strangers ; I 
am the only one remainmg of the old set." 

Eustace put a piece of money in the 
porter's hands, thanking him for his infor- 
mation ; and, leaving the bank, he hurried 
on towards the Strand. 

How distracting are the sounds of gay, 
busy life around us, when suffering in 
mind, as Eustace then was ; and how be- 
wildering the bustle and incessant clamour 
of London streets, most especially to one 
now so long used to the silent deserts of 


India ! Eustace at length reached the 
house to which he had been directed. 
But now that he had found it, he dreaded 
to ask for admittance. He dreaded be- 
holding poor Ned ; any one, in short, 
connected with his past existence. He 
dreaded hearing the truth. He at last 
rang the bell, and demanded admittance. 
Mr. Watson was at home, and alone. Eus- 
tace gave his name, and was conducted 
up stairs, and announced. 

" Mr. Grey ?" he heard Ned repeat in 
an inquiring tone, " Mr. Grey ? It must 
be some mistake. I know no Mr. Grey ; 
not now at least," he added, in a lower tone. 

A figure entered the room. Poor Ned 
actually started on beholding it ; and in 
truth Eustace, at that moment, might 
have startled any one, for he looked hke 
nothing ahve. 

" Is it possible 1" exclaimed Ned, rush- 
ing up to him. " Grey, my good 
fellow ! Grey ! can I beheve my eyes ? 
is it really you, or your ghost?" And 


Xed grasped the hand of Eustace in 
both liis. The latter endeavoured to 
speak, but he was so overcome by the 
variety of recollections which, at that 
moment, the sight of Xed had revived, 
and so worn out by fatigue, both of body 
and mind, that, after faintly pronouncing 
the name of Lucy Lushington, he fell 
back insensible. 

All that kindness could do was done by 
the good Ned, to restore and sooth his 
suffering friend, and break to him the dis- 
tressing truth, that he could give liim no 
intelligence whatever of her of whom he 
was in search. 

" The last I saw of Miss Lucy," said 
Xed, " was a short time before the death 
of her mother. They were then hving in 
lodgings at Brompton ; but, of course, 
with Mrs. Lushington's life, ended her 
jointure (the only sum rescued from the 
general smash). There was no provision 
whatever for the daughter, and, indeed, I 
do not beheve, by law, there could be. 



Everything went to the creditors ; and 
after that, what became of her I never 
could find out. I once, soon after her 
mother's death, when she was still at 
Brompton, made over to her fifty pounds 
(with a lie of some sort, as to where it 
came from) ; but whether that offended 
her, or whether other reasons made her 
wish to be concealed (for I heard there 
were queer stories about her), I know not ; 
but she apparently took pains to remain 
unknown. Indeed, almost immediately 
after the dreadful business was over, she and 
her mother changed their names ; and, of 
course, then it was more difficult to find 
them out. There was a gentleman who 
seemed to me to be after Miss Lushington, 
for I once or twice met him near their lodg- 
ings, and he used to come frequently to our 
house to inquire how matters were going 
on with regard to the Elsmere property, 
whether that would go -with all the rest, 
or whether Miss Lushington had not a 
claim to it ; but who he was, or where he 


came from, I don't know, though I 
fancied I had seen him before somewhere. 
But since that time I have entirely lost 
sight of Miss Lucy. Poor thing ! such 
a nice -mannered, pleasant, happ}' girl 
as she once was ! Poor thing ! poor 
thing !" 

Eustace sobbed Hke a child, while listen- 
ing to Ned's sad narrative ; and ill, worn 
in body and mind, and completely ex- 
hausted by long fatigue and anxiety, his 
enfeebled frame sunk at leno:th under such 
accumulated trials. Fever and delirium 
ensued, and for several weeks, while he 
hung between life and death, his kind 
friend Ned nursed him as the fondest 
brother would have done. 

When at last he began to recover, which 
he did very slowly, Ned, as Eustace was 
able to bear the recital, gave him the de- 
tailed account of every circumstance con- 
nected with his uncle's awful end. '' The 
law is the law, I know," said Ned ; " and 
I suppose it must be kept to for the sake 

N 2 


of — of the law ! But if ever it could be 
ricjflit to break it, I am sure it would liave 
been so in your poor uncle's case. I am 
certain lie meant no more harm than the 
babe unborn, he was too much of a gen- 
tleman for that ; and all, I dare say, 
would have gone on very well, had it not 
been for that unfortunate Empson House 
business ; and then his partners behaving 
so shabby, leaving him in the lurch like. 
I don't know when I was so tempted to 
tell a fib as when I had to vouch for his 
handwTiting ; it was on the tip of my 
tongue to swear it was not his, but some- 
how I could not get it out ! And to think 
that he actually afterwards thanked me 
for having spoken the truth, for I verily 
believe it was my evidence which hung 
him. But he was a gentleman, every inch 
of him ! The fact was, your uncle had 
played too deep a game — had risked too 
high a stake, and so got entangled. I 
own I had my suspicions that something 
was going wrong that time when we all 


went to Italy together, Mr. Lushington 
was in such a d — 1 of a humour while we 
were at Naples ! If the Elsmere property 
could have been disposed of, I believe 
even that might have set things right. 
But that, it seems, was impossible, being 
entailed, or something of that sort. 
By-the-by, Grey," added Ned, after a 
moment's pause, " I don't know whether 
you have heard that all that is gone too ; 
not to the creditors, but to some upstart 
heirs-at-law, who very soon after the 
death of your poor uncle brought forward 
their claims to the estate. He, I know, 
by a letter he left for my father (who was 
never able to read it), fancied that it was 
to you it would go after him. But no 
sooner was Mr. Lushington in his grave, 
than there was the d — 1 to pay with 
claimants, and I don't know who all ; and 
everything was overhauled, and everybody 
claimed everything (and I warrant there 
was plenty of cheating) ; and then up- 
started these Elsmere people, whom nobody 


had ever even heard of before — ' heirs-at- 
law/ as they styled themselves, to the 
Elsmere estate — for it seems there was a 
flaw (as they call it) in that will which 
old Mr. Elsmere had made in India ; and 
such a deuced confused rigmarole as that 
will was I never set eye on ! I suppose 
they don't know how to make wills in that 
out-of-the-way place. Well, so when 
these brought forward their claims, there 
was no one to dispute the matter mth 
them, or do anything about it. You were 
the Lord knows where in India ; and as 
for poor Miss Lucy, I suppose she did not 
know what to do, (how should she, poor 
tiling !) and so, in short, these Elsmere 
people took possession of the whole. But 
I really believe, from what I have since 
heard (for at the time I was in such a 
fury, I would Ksten to nothing), that even 
if you or Miss Lucy had chanced to be 
forthcoming at the time, you could neither 
of you have made anything of it. I can't 
explain it aU, for I am no lawyer; but 


tlie long and short of the story is, that 
Elsmere Manor is now in the hands of a 
family of that name. But I dare say you 
don't care, Grrey ! You are such an odd 
fellow ; — you know, I always told you 
you cared for nothing — for none of those 
things, at least, that other people care for." 

Ned was quite right in that his suppo- 
sition. The part of his uncle's letter 
relative to the Elsmere property, had 
certainly made much less impression upon 
Eustace than the rest, his mind being 
so entirely engrossed by his torturing 
anxiety respecting the fate of Lucy ; and 
when Ned for a minute now paused, he 
abruptly said, " Was it at Brompton you 
said they lived? I believe I know some- 
thing about the clergyman there — who 
was there, at least. I am much better 
to-day, I think I could go there." 

"Not alone," said Ned; "I wiU not 
let you go out of my sight, I can tell you, 
my good friend, whether you are better 
or no." 


Eustace held out to liim liis pale, ema- 
ciated hand. " Good, kind Ned !" said he, 
with a languid smile. " But then we 
must go there at once — to-morrow — im- 
mediately ! for how much time has been 
lost abeady !" 

Ned agreed, and they went to Bromp- 
ton. The clergyman, Mr. Johnson, was 
found, but he could give no information. 
He knew nothing whatever of any Mrs. 
or Miss Lushington ; " And Lushington is 
a name," he added, " I could scarcely, I 
think, have overlooked or forgotten." A 
crimson flush for a minute passed over 
the paUid face of Eustace, and he hastily 
took leave of Mr. Johnson. He had in- 
tended inquiring of him after their mutual 
friend Neville ; but this sudden allusion 
to his poor uncle's disgrace drove even 
Neville from his mind, and he hurried out 
of the house. 



Eustace and Ned Watson continued for 
some time their indefatigable researches 
and inquiries in Brompton and its neigh- 
bourhood, but all in vain — no one knew 
of any such persons. How often dui'ing 
these fruitless researches, his mind en- 
grossed by the image of Lucy, did Eustace 
hurry his pace to overtake some figure 
wliich he fancied bore a resemblance to 
her's ; but when breathless on reaching it, 
he looked eagerly through the veil which 
partly hid the face, he was painfully con- 
vinced that they were not the featui'cs of 
his beloved Lucy wliich then met his 
longing eyes, and he passed dejected on 
again and again thus to hope, and again 
and again to be disappointed. 


Eustace was at length convinced that 
all search in London was in vain. He 
had now been there for above two months, 
making every inquiry — catching at every 
possible means of information. He had 
visited every house of refuge — every office 
— even the haunts of poverty and vice. 
He also had recourse to advertisements in 
the pubhc papers, and more than once 
there appeared at the head of the " Times " 
columns, one of those moving addresses 
so carelessly read and thrown aside by the 
gay and prosperous, containing in two or 
tliree words the history of a breaking 
heart : — 

" Eustace is in England. He entreats 
LucT/ will write to liim immediately. — 
Post-office, Strand." 

Thus hopeless, and now nearly destitute, 
Hving, in short, on the charity of his kind 
friend Ned Watson, Eustace felt there was 
no alternative for him but to return to 
India ; hoping that, amid his labours there, 
he might, in the service of his Divine 


IMaster, be better able to endure his 
misery ; hoping too, perhaps, (although 
scarcely acknowledged by himself,) that 
his broken health would not long with- 
stand the effects of that deadly climate, 
and that thus all would soon be over ! At 
all events, he felt that his present Hfe of 
constant wearing anxiety and disappoint- 
ment, acting upon him as slow poison, 
was more than either mind or body could 
much longer endure. As soon as he was 
suflB-ciently recovered from his severe ill- 
ness as to be able to hold his pen, he 
wrote to his mother, informing her of his 
being once more in England, and of the 
purport of liis return, although with 
scarcely a hope of obtaining any informa- 
tion from her — any relief to his anxieties ; 
for he was aware how complete had been 
the separation between Mrs. Grey and 
her brother's family, for now many years ; 
so complete, indeed, that the appalling 
news of Mr. Lushington's tragical end, 
and all the dreadful circumstances attend- 


ing it, reached Mrs. Grey only tlirougli 
the medium of the public papers. 

With her sister-in-law (Mrs. Lushing- 
ton), she had not ever had much inter- 
course, she had not indeed even seen her 
above once or twice in her life ; and with 
Lucy she had never met ! To have gone, 
therefore, unbidden to Stanhope- street, 
under such circumstances, was impos- 
sible ; and besides, at that moment, the 
old relation of her husband's, with whom 
Mrs. Grrey had now resided for so many 
years, and from whom she had experienced 
so much kindness, was in so failing a 
state, she could not leave her. Of Lucy, 
therefore, Mrs. Grrey could give her son 
no information whatever. She had no 
doubt felt severely the awfully humili- 
ating event in her family, but on receiving 
her dear Eustace's letter, she natm-ally 
thought only of her 'grateful joy at his 
being once more restored to his native 
land, and of her happiness at the prospect 
of again beholding him. 


Mrs. Grey concluded, with informing 
Eustace, tliat in consequence of the an- 
nuity purchased for her by her " dear 
hoy,'' and another bequeathed to her by 
her husband's deceased relation, she was 
still very comfortably provided for, not- 
withstanding the loss of her poor brother's 
allowance. In proof of wliicli, she en- 
closed 20/. for that dear boy's present 
use, aware that his purse must need a 
little replenisliing, when having so gene- 
rously made over to herself all he pos- 
sessed in this world; and she ended by 
praying that his restored health might 
soon allow him to visit her in Devonshire. 

Eustace had now fully made up his 
mind to quit England for ever, as soon 
as he had seen his mother ; but he could 
not return to India without once more 
beholding his good, kind friend, Neville ; 
and he, in consequence, left London for 
Oxford. Here agam, however, he met with 
disappointment. Keville had left Oxford 
altogether, and was now established as 


rector at the retired country parish of 
Barton, in Gloucestershire. Thither, 
therefore, Eustace now proceeded. 

It may be well imagined how agi- 
tating was their meeting. Neville, as 
we have seen, in his peculiar indifference 
to the ordinary events of life, both with 
regard to himself and others, had never, 
in former days, even inquired the name 
of that uncle to whom Eustace had always 
expressed himself as so much indebted. 
He had not, therefore, at first in any way 
identified with his young friend, Eustace 
Grey, the unfortunate individual, whose 
trial and execution made so great a sen- 
sation, not only in London, but through- 
out the whole country. For at the time 
there were various opinions, with regard 
to what Mr. Lushington's sentence should 
have been, it being evident (at least to 
many), that he had certainly intended re- 
placing the unlawfully-appropriated sums, 
and would have done so had it not been 
for numerous untoward circumstances, 


and tlie almost unlooked-for failure of 
all his money speculations. As, by de- 
grees, the truth broke in upon the mind 
of Xeville, no words can describe his 
distress and anxiety ^dth regard to that 
interesting young friend to whom he was 
so much attached, and upon whom he 
was well aware the dreadful news, if ever 
it reached liim in his banishment, would 
fall so severely I and he made repeated 
inquiries at the different missionaiy offices 
in London respecting him — whether he 
had ever been heai'd of since he left Eng- 
land, and whether his destination in India 
was known, but aU in vain. 

XeviUe endeavoured also to obtaia 
some intelligence respecting ^Irs. Lush- 
ington, and the object of his poor friend's 
devoted attachment, but, equally, to no 
purpose. He ascertained that, their for- 
mer residence had been in Stanhope- 
street ; but the house was now shut up, 
and he could learn nothing of the widow 
and daughter. 


With what startling joy did he there- 
fore behold Eustace (whom he fancied in 
the sohtudes of India), when he suddenly 
one day appeared at his parsonage at 
Barton I He gazed at him, not only 
with pleasure, but with actual reverence, 
as one suffering under the immediate 
chastening hand of God — a chosen servant 
of the Lord, to be purified by trials and 
afHiction for his service. 

Eustace had not hoped to obtain from 
Neville any information respecting her, 
whose image was never for a moment 
absent from his mind; but he knew he 
would find in him, not only a sympathis- 
ing friend, but one who would strengthen 
him to bear the trials with which it had 
pleased heaven to visit him ; and he was 
not disappointed. 

Neville gradually led the mind of Eus- 
tace from this present scene of sorrow to 
that future world, where those who are 
separated here, will meet for ever in bliss. 
The quiet of the country also, after the 


life of ceaseless wearing, fatigue, anxiety, 
and disappointment, which Eustace had 
of late led while in London, helped also, 
in some degree, to improve his shattered 
health. Eustace informed ]N"eville of his 
having made up his mind to return finally 
to India. Tears rushed into that kind 
friend's eyes on hearing of this, his deter- 
mination; for he was well aware how 
hroken that young heart must be, how 
hopeless of ever again being reunited to 
her, who had, for so many years, been the 
object of his existence, before he could 
have come to such a resolution. 

Seeing liim however fixed in his pur- 
pose, Neville wisely, during the few days 
Eustace now spent with him, turned his 
mind to what would be his future home 
and interests — to his missionary labours ! 
inquu'ing what had been his success 
hitherto in spreading the gospel among 
the benighted heathens ? endeavourhag, 
in short, as much as possible, to direct 
his friend's mind to his appointed work 



in the Lord's vineyard. And sometimes 
Neville succeeded (at least for the mo- 
ment) in occupying the attention of Eus- 
tace, who, hopeless now of earthly happi- 
ness, expressed himself as grateful to his 
heavenly Father, for still providing him 
with some labour of love to perform for 
his fellow-creatures, some object in life. 

" But it is a very melancholy exist- 
ence," added Eustace, with a deep sigh, 
" to pass all one's days among heathens ! 
and it has a bad effect upon one's own 
mind even ! to think that such thousands 
of our fellow-creatures should be doomed 
to live and die in such awful ignorance 
of their Creator and Eedeemer! The 
thought sometimes confuses my own 
brain — almost staggers my faith — terrifies 
me ! and then one meets with such dis- 
appointments. Oh, it is hard — hard 

" Perhaps it might be refreshing to 
your spirit, Grey," said Neville, " to ad- 
dress a congregation of Christians (of 


those who, at aUviiiAttk, profess to be 
Christians). Do you think you feel equal 
to preaching for me on Sunday, — for you 
must not at all events leave me till next 
week? I should so much hke to hear 
you once again, for I have not forgotten 
that sermon of yours in Quebec-street 
Chapel a few years ago \ and probably 
you have now quite overcome all your 
nervous diffidence (the only thing in your 
way that day, I thought), so I hope I am 
not asking too much of you ?" 

Eustace heaved a deep sigh, and did not 
immediately reply. At last, in a dejected 
tone, he said, " Whatever you hke. But 
I have now for so long spoken to such a 
totally different class of hearers from those 
in your highly-favoured Christian parish, 
that I fear I shall hardly be able to adapt 
myself to their more enhghtened minds ; 
and that I may actually affront them by 
dwelling on the A B C of their rehgion." 
'' Oh, I have no fear as to that," said 
Neville, smiling, " I will readily take 



that responsibility on eayself ; and should 
be very glad if you did put strongly, 
before my parishioners, the high Chris- 
tian pri\aleges they enjoy above so many 
thousands of their fellow-creatures, and 
their consequent great obligations." 

The matter was accordingly thus settled 
between the two friends, and on the next 
Sunday morning they walked together to 
church some little time before the service 
began, Eustace at once taking his place 
in the seat belonging to ISTeville at the 
back of the pulpit ; as the latter thought 
it best not to over-fatigue his enfeebled 
guest by giving him any part of the ser- 
vice to perform. On Eustace commencing 
his prayer preparatory to the sermon, a 
little temporary disturbance occurred in 
one of the free seats below; some per- 
sons got up from their places, collecting 
around one who had apparently been sud- 
denly taken ill ; but in a minute or two, 
. the invalid was carried out of the church 
and order restored. Neville had informed 


several of the congregation that one of 
those exalted servants of Grod, who devote 
their lives to the salvation of the igrnorant 
heathen, would address them that day; 
great was therefore the interest excited 
in favour of the preacher. All eyes were 
fixed upon him, and not a sound in that 
country parish church disturbed the im- 
pressive tones of the voice of Eustace Grey. 
" Thank you, thank you, my dear 
friend !" said Neville, as he took the arm 
of Eustace, on leaving the church. " You 
need have made no apologies for not 
being prepared to preach to our more 
enlightened hearers at home. I pray 
that the many (it is to be feared) mere 
nominal Christians who listened to you 
this day, may lay to heart the blessed 
truths they have heard, and '' bring forth 
fruits meet for repentance." — Why," con- 
tinued Neville, smiling, " you are more 
eloquent than ever. Grey ! and I plainly 
saw that the greater part of your discourse 
was extemporary." 


" Yes ; I have now, of necessity, got 
into the habit of that sort of preaching," 
replied Eustace ; " and it is easy enough 
after the first." 

" And you have also evidently made 
much progress in the knowledge of human 
nature," continued NeviUe. 

'' In the knowledge of myself, perhaps, 
you had better say," rejoined Eustace, in 
a dejected tone. "I am now so well 
aware of all my own weaknesses, my own 
backslidings ; of how much this world's 
afiections — its passions, indeed, still mas- 
ter me ; of how necessary it is to repeat 
to myself daily, my text (that day to 
which you alluded) ' Love not the world, 
nor the things that are in the world,' that 
I ma}^ weU speak from the heart words 
w^liich I trust God will bless to the hearts 
of those who hear me." 

By the manner in which Eustace re- 
peated those words (his text the only day 
when Lucy had been one of his congre- 
gation), it was evident how much they 


said to himself — how much they recalled ! 
The friends then pursued their walk home 
in silence. 

In the afternoon, Eustace again accom- 
panied Neville to his church, hut took no 
part in the service, for he seemed languid, 
and much fatigued by the exertion of the 
morning. When the evening's service 
was over, Neville told Eustace he was 
going as far as the end of the village be- 
fore returning home. " The walk will 
refresh and do you good. Grey, I think. 
Will you come with me? I want to 
inquire after my infant-school teacher, 
who was taken ill in church this morning, 
just as you began your sermon. I was 
afraid the little bustle it occasioned in the 
free seats might have disturbed you." 

" I was not aware of any disturbance," 
said Eustace, in an absent tone. 

*' She is a person," continued Neville, 
" who particularly interests me, having 
plainly seen better days; and those are 
the poor most to be pitied." 


" I suppose so/' replied Eustace, in the 
same abstracted tone and manner, evi- 
dently not in the least attending to his 
friend's words. 

They had now reached the school-house 

*' If you will wait a minute or two, 
here," said Neville, " I will return to you 

Eustace wandered down the shady lane 
into which the cottage opened, enjoying 
the sight, once more, of a rural English 
village, his mind wandering back to Els- 
mere — the churchyard — parsonage — and 
old grey church. 

In a few moments, Neville rejoined 
him. " My poor invalid," said he, "is in 
a strange, nervous state to-day. I hardly 
know what to make of her. The minute 
she saw me, she inquired about you, whe- 
ther your name was not Grey ? where you 
came from? for she says she once knew 
you, and that she must see you. Of 
course, it is some mistake ; but perhaps 


you wiR go in for a minute, and clear it 
up, while I go to that cottage just oppo- 
site, having a word with the clerk, who 
lives there, and I \sdll retui-n to you 

A strange, vague, unaccountable agita- 
tion, in an instant, came over Eustace ! 
Every pulse beat. — He crossed the thresh- 
old of the school-house door, scarcely 
conscious of what he did, where he was, 
even what he saw. — He beheld at the 
further end of the room, with a child on 
her lap, the figure of a thin, pale young 
woman in deep mourning ! The instant 
she beheld him, she stai'ted up, put the 
child down on the floor beside her, and 
appeared to attempt to advance towards 
him, but her strength e\idently faihng 
her, she caught hold of the chair from 
which she had just risen, for support. 
Eustace gazed at her, scarcely knowing 
what he saw : his senses became confused ; 
he dared not move, for fear the vision 
should vanish. 


" Eustace !" saicl the figure, " do you 
not know me ?" 

At the sound of that voice — faint as 
were then its accents, at that name — a 
name so peculiarly identified in his mind 
with that dear voice — Eustace felt as if in 
delirium ! He rushed up to the figure — 
he clasped it in his arms — then, gazing 
wildly in her face — " Lucy, Lucy !" he 
exclaimed, nearly frantic, "is it you, my 
own, own Lucy ? Oh, speak to me ! Let 
me hear your dear voice once more. Let 
me heox it and die — for surely you are 
sent from another world to summon me to 
heaven. Speak to me — speak to me ! if 
you are indeed my own darling Lucy, and 
not a mere phantom of my brain — an 
apparition !" 

" Dear, dear Eustace !" was all that 
faltering voice could utter, as Lucy fell, 
nearly senseless, on his breast. 

Again and again he clasped her to his 
heart, covering her hands, her cheeks, her 
lips, with frantic endearments. 


" Oh, revive, dearest !" he exclaimed. 
" My own Lucy again restored to me — 
never, never again to part — mine for 
ever. Surely by a miracle of Providence 
we are again united, and nothing shall 
ever again separate us. Is it not so, 
Lucy — my own Lucy ? Oh, my God, my 
God! I bless thee — I thank thee !" and 
Eustace fell upon his knees by her side, 
again clasping her hand in his, again 
covering it with passionate kisses. 

At those last w^ords of Eustace, an ex- 
pression of the most acute anguish suddenly 
overspread the countenance of Lucy. She 
appeared to be terrified by his vehemence ; 
and she laid her other hand on his arm, as 
if to try and loosen the one he held from 
his grasp. His eye then suddenly fell on 
a wedding-ring on her third finger. He 
started, aghast. '' Lucy !" he exclaimed, 
in a wild, excited tone and manner, '' what 
is that ? What does that ring mean ? It 
is not my ring — you returned it to me. 
My hand never placed that ring there. 


"Whose ring was that ? Oh, speak to me 
— in pity speak to me !" he repeated, 
every moment hecoming more and more 
excited ; " answer me, or I shall go mad. 
— Who put that ring on your hand ?" 

Lucy's whole frame shook mth terror 
and emotion. 

''That— that child's father,"— she at 
length stammered out, in a scarcely au- 
dible voice, as she pointed to the child on 
the floor beside her ; " and — and he still 

A thunderbolt seemed at that moment 
to fall upon Eustace. He at once let go 
the hand which he had the minute before 
so passionately grasped in his own ; a cry 
of agony burst from his convulsed Hps ; 
and his head fell against the side of the 
chair upon which Lucy had sunk, and 
now sat hke a statue ! 

At that minute, Neville appeared at 
the door of the cottage. He had scarcely 
parted from Eustace, when a sudden 
strange suspicion of the truth flashed 


across his mind, that it was his poor 
friend's lost Lucy who was now in so 
wonderful a manner restored to him ; but 
restored to him, Neville feared, only as 
the wife, although (as he suspected) the 
deserted wife of another ! And fearful 
what might be the effects of so sudden a 
shock on the already enfeebled frame of 
his young friend, Neville hurried back to 
the cottage. The moment he cast his 
eyes on those two figures, his worst fears 
were confirmed. He hastened up to Eus- 
tace. — '' Grey," said he, as he endeavoured 
to lift him from the floor, on which he 
had sunk, " Grey, rouse yourself! For her 
sake, endeavour to command yourself!" 

Eustace looked up in Neville's face, 
staring wildly at him, as if he did not re- 
cognise him. Neville raised him from 
the ground, and helped him into a chair 
by the door, that the air might blow 
freely upon him, for he appeared to be 
actually gasping for breath, and his eyes 
were closed. After a minute or two, how- 


ever, consciousness in some degree re- 
turned. Eustace clasped his hands before 
his face, and after one or two convulsive 
sobs, he burst into an agony of tears ! 

Neville stood by his side in silence, en- 
deavouring to hide Lucy from his sight. 
He knew to speak to his poor friend then 
would be useless ; but after a time, seeing 
that he w^as rather more composed, " Come 
with me," he said, " for a little into the 
fresh air, and you shall return when you 
are better." Eustace made no answer, 
but rose from the chair, and took the 
proffered arm of Neville, appearing quite 
unconscious what he did. 

During all this time, Lucy had re- 
mained immoveable on the seat where 
Eustace had left her ; but when she saw 
him move towards the door, terror lest he 
was again lea\dng her — leaving her in 
anger — perhaps for ever ! appeared to 
overcome every other feeling ; and mth a 
passionate energy, very foreign to her 
gentle nature, she rushed up to him, and 


seizing his hand, " Oh, don't go, Eustace ! 
In pity don't leave me till you have for- 
given me ! In mercy, don't take him from 
me ! Eustace — Eustace, say you forgive 
me — it is all I ask !'* 

" Hush, don't speak to him now !" said 
Keville, earnestly. '' He has heen very 
ill — don't agitate him. I promise he shall 
return to you, but loose your hold — let 
him go now !" 

Lucy, with an expression of utter 
despair on her countenance, relinquished 
the hand of Eustace, and he and Xeville 
left the cottage. 

Eustace appeared too entirely overpow- 
ered to offer any resistance. Indeed, he 
seemed hardly conscious of what was pass- 
ing, and he suffered j^eville to take him 
into the adjoining garden, and there 
placing him on a seat, he sat down by 
liim in silence. After a time, however, 
perceiving that the Hfe-blood had returned 
to the blanched cheeks and lips of his 
stricken friend, Keville ventured to speak 


to him of wliat had occurred, dwelhng on 
his providential meeting with her whom 
but an hour before he had never hoped to 
behold again, reminding him that all things 
work together for good to those who love 
and trust to their Grod ; thus, by degrees, 
recalling the bewildered mind of Eustace 
to a consciousness of the truth. 

" Shall I not go to her now ?" said 
Neville. '' Poor thing, she too needs 
comfort. And soon you will be able 
yourself to come." 

" Oh, my own — own dear Lucy !" ex- 
claimed Eustace, clasping his hands in 
agony. " To meet, only to be parted for 
ever ! Oh, my God, have pity on me ! 
have pity on me ! — it is too much — too 
much to bear 1" 

" Hush, hush, Grrey, from such rebellious 
words !" said Neville, solemnly. '' Shall 
not the Judge of all the earth do right ? 
Cast all your care upon Him. Trust to 
Him — He can bring good out of evil. 
He never willingly afflicts his children !" 


As soon as Neville had left him, Eus- 
tace, clasping his hands before his face, 
implored for strength to bear his present 
agonizing trial. For entire submission to 
his heavenly Father's will ! 

It was some time before he had courage 
to return to Lucy's cottage — before he 
ventured again to behold her. But by 
degrees he became more calm and col- 
lected. His prayer had been heard. 
Divine help was sent to him ; and after 
severe communing with himself, he at 
length rose from his seat, and slowly 
walked towards the school-house. 

Neville, immediately perceiving him, 
hastened up to him. " Come," said he, 
-smiling, "I see I can trust you together 
now. Come, Grey, and join with your 
friend here in returning thanks to the 
Almighty, for again in so wonderful — so 
unlooked for a manner, restoring you to 
each other. His ways are indeed past 
om' finding out !" 

And taking Lucy's hand, he put it 



into that of Eustace. " Thank God!" was 
all his qnivering lips could utter. As 
for Lucy, she stood trembling, not ven- 
turing even to raise her eyes from the 
ground. "Well, now I will leave you 
for a little wliile," added NeviUe. " You 
must have a great deal to say to each 
other after so total a separation, and for 
such a length of time ! But it must not 
be for long. He has been ill," said Ne- 
ville, turning towards Lucy, " and we 
must spare him and nurse him. To- 
morrow you will both be better." 

Lucy spoke not. But as soon as the 
door had closed upon Neville, " Eustace !" 
she cried, clasping her hands, and falling 
on her knees beside him. " Do you for- 
give me ? When you know all, I am sure 
you will ; but in pity tell me so now, I 
am so very — very wretched !" 

''Eorgive you, Lucy!" said Eustace, 
fixing his tearful eyes on her face. " I 
7nust forgive you, even though you have 
broken my heart ! for indeed I could not 


find a place in that heart wherein to re- 
tain anger against you, wherein to find 
anything but — but — the tenderest love !" 
That last word was scarcely audible. 
" No doubt we have both needed chasten- 
ing," he continued, " but oh, it is hard to 
bear !" 

" Not you, not you, Eustace ! It is I 
who have drawn it down upon you — it is 
all my fault ! Oh if I could but recall one 
moment — only one moment !" And poor 
Lucy burst into an agony of tears. 

" We must not talk of all that just 
now," said Eustace, in a hurried, agitated 
manner ; '' I am not fit for it." 

At that moment, a young child's voice 
was heard from the further end of the 
room. Eustace shuddered, and Lucy's 
pale face was instantly sufiused with a 
crimson flush. She hurried up to the 
couch on which the child was laying, 
stooping her head down over it to stifle 
her sobs. The frightened, half-slumber- 
ing boy clung to her alarmed ; she endea- 

p 2 


voiired to raise him in her arms, but her 
strength failed her, and she sank on the 
floor ! Eustace rushed up to her. He 
lifted her from the ground to the couch, 
and sitting down by her, drew her towards 
him for support. 

For a few minutes neither spoke. At 
length, in a low broken voice, '' Lucy," 
said he, "I have much to learn ! There 
is much you must tell me, but not now. 
I cannot bear it yet — to-morrow !" Once 
more he clasped her to his heart — once 
more he pressed his lips to her forehead, 
and then, abruptly starting up, he left 
the house. 

He had not proceeded far, before he 
met Neville. " I was just coming for 
you," said he. ''I must be your doctor, 
and I will allow of no more agitations to- 

" I have told her I shall not see her 
till to-morrow," said Eustace. " But I 
cannot rest till I know all. You, NeviUe, 
must tell me all you know. What — 


whose is that child ?" And poor Eustace 
shuddered as he spoke those words. 

" I fear I can give you little informa- 
tion," said Neville. " Indeed, more light 
has broken in upon me respecting your 
poor friend during this last half-hour, than 
since I have known her ; but I will tell 
all I know. I think it was about this 
time two years that I was in town, having 
taken a fortnight's duty for my friend 
Johnson, at Brompton, when I was one 
day requested by a person who kept 
lodgings in the neighbourhood, to come 
to a sick lady, then in her house, who was, 
she said, in a dying state. She called her 
Mrs. Lewis. I went immediately. It 
was your poor friend's mother, or perhaps 
rather her mother-in-law, for they both 
went by the same name of Lewis. 

" She was evidently very near her end ; 
and, alas ! evidently also very ill prepared for 
the awful summons. It was one of those 
painful death-bed scenes that we clergy- 
men are so often called upon to witness. 


I at once perceived tliat neither mother or 
daughter belonged to the class of persons 
which one might have expected to find in 
so comfortless an abode, and it was evident 
that they were suffering under some great 
reverse of fortune, and the mother ap- 
parently rebelled under the chastening 
hand of God. 

" The daughter (your Lucy), was then 
married — for I saw a wedding-ring on her 
hand — but to whom I knew not then, I 
know not now. I never saw her husband 
or heard him named, nor has she ever in 
any way alluded to him. Before I left 
Brompton, Johnson not having yet re- 
turned, I read the faneral service at the 
grave of her mother, and I again visited 
the daughter more than once. I cannot 
tell you the interest she excited in me, 
from her evident misfortunes, her patient 
resignation, and her deep, humble piety. 
But openly as she spoke to me on rehgious 
subjects, with regard to herself, her situa- 
tion in this world, and her connections. 


she said nothing ; and I left her as totally- 
ignorant of her history as I had found 

'' Being again, late in the autumn of 
that year, for a few days in London, I 
went to that same house in Brompton, to 
inquire affcer her, for I could not get your 
poor Lucy out of my head, little as I then 
connected her with you. She had moved 
from that lodging to one even more 
humble, and had every appearance about 
her of still greater poverty ; and she was 
then a mother. She was greatly over- 
come on seeing me, and when I inquired 
into her present situation and future plans, 
it was some time before she could speak at 
all. I at last made out from her broken 
sentences, that she had received notice to 
quit the house she then was in. 

" ' That, I suppose, I must soon have 
done at any rate,' she said, ' for my means 
are now nearly exliausted, and I can get 
no employment of any kind ; but besides ' 
— and she stopped, an agony of convulsive 


tears preventing her from proceeding. 
But from the broken sentences and the 
few words T caught, it was evident that it 
was not merely on account of what she 
owed for rent, that her landlady had given 
her warning to quit ; but that, in conse- 
quence of the mystery which hung about 
her, her longer stay, she said, would 
injury the respectability of her house. 
This, at least, was what, from her violent 
agitation, I inferred to be the primary 
cause of her present distress. I felt so 
entirely convinced of the truth of all she 
said; and of the utter falsehood of these 
aspersions on her character; she, in short, 
inspired me with such confidence — indeed, 
I may say, with such respect — that I could 
not bring myself to question her with 
regard to her history, and that ' mystery ' 
concerning her to which she had herself 
alluded, or to ask who and where the 
father of her child was. She was in deep 
mourning, but not in a widow's dress. 
Such instances of unprincipled desertion. 


as hers appeared to be, are, I fear, but 
too common in the world, especially in the 
world of London 1 Without, therefore, 
in any way adverting to the past, I in- 
quired what were her plans for the future, 
where she now intended going. 

" ' I know not ; I have no plans ; I 
know not what to do, where to go,' she 

" ' Have you no friends ?' 

" ' No, none — none now/ she added ; 
and again her words became perfectly 
unintelligible from agitation. 

" I am not apt to take sudden fancies," 
continued Neville, " indeed, I fear I am 
in general too much disposed to keep 
aloof from my fellow-creatm-es, but some- 
how this poor, friendless, young thing 
excited my interest in a manner I really 
could hardly myself, at the moment, 
account for. But I see it all now ! The 
Almighty, in his providential mercy, 
employed me to protect, perhaps to save 
your poor, desc^la-te friend from yet greater 


evils than even those from which she then 
suffered !" — 

During all this time, Eustace had never 
once spoken, never moved ; had apparently 
scarcely breathed, while, with tears slowly 
stealing down his face, he listened to 
Neville's narrative. But on a sudden now 
he grasped his friend's hand. 

" Blessings, blessings on you !" he ex- 
claimed ; " may heaven reward you ! I 
never can. Go on — go on — let me hear 

" I have little more to tell," said Neville. 
" I inquired into her means of subsistence. 

" ' I have none,' was her hopeless re- 
ply, ' but I can work ; perhaps,' she 
added (as if she had already considered 
the subject) ' perhaps I could teach little 
children — village children, I mean, if I 
could but get away from here into the 
country, but I really have not the means.' 

" Such was the extraordinary confidence 
with which she inspired me, I directly 
proposed to her — to your Lucy — to her 


who was once, by your account, tlie gay, 
thoughtless, admired Lucy of the w^orld of 
fashion, to come to my village, as an 
infant-school teacher ! — She has now been 
here nearly two years ; but until this day, 
I have kno\\Ti no more of her history — of 
who she was, or who she is — than the 
day I first saw her. But whatever that 
histor}' may be, I am certain she must 
have been more sinned against than 
sinning; for a more innocent, upright, 
truly pious mind — a more humble Cliris- 
tian spirit — I never met with. And she 
is, then, the person of whom I remember 
once inquiring of you (in more than doubt) ^ 
whether she was a child of God ! God 
has, indeed, chosen her for his own — has 
set his seal upon her; and oh, my dear 
Iriend, thank him for that his mercy. 
Whatever may be the trials, the sacrifices 
which he may be pleased to require of you 
here below, surely you will cheerfully 
endure them, knowing that she whom you 
have so long loved is worthy of that love ; 


that, if separated for a while now, you 
may look with certainty to being reunited 
in heaven ! — And who knows but what ! — 
that still ! — in short, she will now tell you 
all ; you will now know what has been her 
fate ; what is now her situation. There 
may still be a possibihty ! a hope !" 

Eustace grasped his friend's hand. For 
a minute a bright gleam of hope and 
joy lit up his countenance ; but it soon 
vanished, when Lucy's owm words rushed 
to his memory, " That child's father still 

" I shall leave you now," said Neville, 
" for I am sure you need rest both of body 
and mind. Think, Grrey, of your state of 
mind only this time yesterday ; what 
would you not then have given only to 
have known of her existence ! and now 
you have found her in the safe keeping of 
her heavenly Father— oh, we have much 
to be thankful for ! I am going back to 
her now, and I shall tell her that I forbid 
all further communications to-day ; to- 


morrow you will both be better able to 
bear all you maY both haYe to learn ; and 
I shall also tell her that she must giYO 
her little pupils a hoHday to-morrow, and 
herself rest." 

At an early hour next morning, Eustace 
was at Lucy's cottage door. She had long 
been watching for him. They met almost 
as the " playfellows " of former days. 

"Oh, what happiness to see you again !" 
exclaimed Luc}^, as she gazed on his face ; 
" for I have been for so long such a desolate 
being — so alone in the world — such an 
outcast — without tie of any sort : I some- 
times even thought I was deserted of Grod 
himself. And as for you, Eustace, I 
never dared hope I should ever behold 
you again. Judge, then, what I felt yes- 
terday, when I suddenly heard your voice 
— for I could not for a minute mistake it ; 
the very first sound of it seemed to de- 
prive me of my senses. I tried to look 
up toward 3'ou, but I could not see. I 
was immediately taken home before I was 


aware of wliat had happened ; for I was al- 
together quite bewildered. I longed to ask 
about you, but I feared I should be thought 
mad ; indeed, I almost thought I was so 
myself! Had I had strength, I should 
have returned to the church to satisfy my 
mind, but I was quite unable. And even, 
again, after you had left me yesterday even- 
ing, when I was alone, again I fancied it 
was all only a feverish delusion — a dream ; 
that it was not possible that I had actually 
seen you — heard your voice. 

*' AU night I kept saying to myself, ' I 
shall see Eustace to-morrow ;' and at last 
I thought that instead of laying awake 
thinking of you, that it was only that I 
was in delirium. I counted the hours tiU 
it might be daybreak ; and oh, how my 
heart beat when I saw the first gleam 
of the morning sun break into my room ! 
that blessed ' to-morrow ' was come when I 
should again behold my best, best friend ! 
And it was no dream ! no delusion ! there 
you really are, dear Eustace ! But do tell 


me, by what miracle it is that I now see 

" God, in his mercy, has guided me to 
you," he replied. "A letter from your 
father, written just before — before he left 
this world, at length reached me in India. 
In it he bade me to return to England 
directly, to protect his dear child — to 
claim you — to claim you as my oivn. Oh, 
Lucy, Lucy !" 

She grasped his hand. " Eustace," 
said she, " listen to me, for I must try 
and tell you all. But come and sit down 
— you look so ill. Oh, dear Eustace ! 
how you are altered !" — And she burst 
into tears. 

" So are you, Lucy. I should scarcely 
have known you. When I saw you last, 
you were gay, blooming, decorated, and 
altogether so different ! but changed as 
you may be, you are still dearer, far 
dearer to me than ever — my own dear^ 
dear Lucy !" 

Eustace shuddered at the sound of his 


own words as he uttered tliem. A bitter 
pang shot through his heart. He hastily- 
let go her hand, and for a minute neither 

" Sit down here by me/' said Lucy, 
" for I must speak to you ; I must tell 
you all ; and oh, what a story I have to 
tell ! I often wonder that I still retain my 
senses, after all the miseries, the horrors, 
I have gone through.- — My dear, dear 
father !" she exclaimed, turning deadly 
pale, and gasping for breath. 

'' I know all that," said Eustace, hastily 
interrupting her, in order to spare her 
such awful recollections. 

'' Yes ; and others must tell you, I can- 
not." Then, after a minute or two, ap- 
pearing to recover herself, she continued — 
" Eustace, do you remember that last even- 
ing we spent together in Stanhope-street ? 
What a dream does all that now seem to 
be ! But not a word you said to me that 
evening is forgotten by me. Oh, if those 
words had but made more impression 


upon me at the time ! How I blush now 
to think of all the nonsense I talked ! hut 
I little thought what was to he the con- 
sequence. I dare say you have forgotten 
it all, hut I never shall." 

" Forgotten that evening, Lucy ! it was 
the last time I saw you — how could I 
forget it !" 

" The next day," Lucy continued, " I 
got your letter. It came upon me like a 
thunderbolt. I had to choose — to decide. 
I loved no one upon earth half as well as 
you; there was no one I so admired, so 
revered, and yet in my mad, worldly folly, 
I doubted — doubted between you and the 
world. I passed three days and nights in 
the most torturing indecision. My affec- 
tion for you had all but got the better. 
One moment more, and I was saved — yes, 
saved!" she repeated, with an expression 
of misery which went to the heart of 
Eustace. " But mamma and Lady Emily 
saw it all in a different light ; they did 
not understand you — they could not un- 



derstand me. They meant well, no 
doubt ; but they so hurried, so terrified 
me, I knew not what I did. Anxiety, 
worry had made me ill. At last, I cannot 
tell what came over me, but I grew so 
faint, so giddy, everything became con- 
fused. What happened then, I cannot 
tell; but when I again came to myself, 
my ring — your ring, dear Eustace — was 
gone ! I asked what was become of it ; I 
was told it was sent back to you according 
to your desire.'' 

" Then it was not you, Lucy, who re- 
turned me the ring, and without one word 
— one parting word."' 

" Surely," said she, almost reproach- 
fully, '' surely, after so many years, you 
might have known me better, Eustace." 

He fell on his knees beside her. '' Bless 
you, bless you, for those words !" he ex- 
claimed, "you don't know what a load 
they have taken off my heart. Oh, if it 
were still possible ! — go on, Lucy." 

"I am sure," she continued, " you can 


have no idea of the misery I then en- 
dured ; for YOU haYe neYer suffered from 
self-reproach. No sooner had I thus, 
through my folly and want of resolution, 
fixed my fate, than I was sensible of the 
madness of my conduct ; and yet it was 
really not all my fault. I thought I 
might still possibly recall my words ; but 
I had no one to apply to. With mamma 
I knew it would be Yain to tell her of my 
distress, she would not haYe listened to 
me ; and during all this time I ncYcr saw 
papa. I was too ill to leaYC my room, 
and he ncYcr came near me. Days — 
weeks thus passed, passed in misery ! No 
one eYcr named you CYen. I at last, one 
day, took courage, and went down to 
papa's study, where I had so often seen 
you, Eustace." 

Painful recollections, at this minute, 
pressed so hard on Lucy's mind, she was 
forced to stop. 

" Dear, dear papa I" she at length ex- 
claimed, as tears gushed from her eyes, 



" had you known my misery, I am sure 
you would have had pity on me ! — But he 
was angry with me, Eustace, for my 
worldly folly — for not valuing you as he 
thought I should have done ; and he was 
so cold, so stern, I had not resolution to 
speak to him, to tell him the truth, of 
how unfairly I had been used. I dreaded 
mamma's anger, too — in short, I had not 
courage to face it all. 

" It was only a few days after that, 
that papa called me into his room, and 
without any preparation, told me you had 
left England, and vrere gone to India, never 
to return ! Oh, Eustace 1 I am sure you 
would have pitied and forgiven me, had you 
known what I then endured ! I beUeve 
poor papa would have given all he pos- 
sessed to have recalled you, for there was 
no one on earth he loved as he did you ! It 
seems there had been some neglect about 
the delivery of your letter to him ; he 
never got it till too late — till you were ir- 
revocably gone ! If you had seen his dis- 


tress ! He so loved you ! Your name 
was the last word I heard him utter. — He 
told me if I ever again saw you, that I 
was to ask your forgiveness for all the 
injury he had done you : what he meant, 
I don't know ; I dare say you don't either ; 
but he even asked my forgiveness. Oh, 
Eustace ! when I think of that dreadful 
day ! — It was the last time I saw him, 
just before — " Here Lucy's sobs stopped 
her utterance, and for some time, neither 

'* Do you mean," said Eustace, at length, 
when she had become somewhat calmer, 
" do you mean that your father never got 
that letter which I myself left at his door 
a few days before I sailed ?" 

" No, not till you were quite, quite 

Again Eustace clasped his hands in 
silent gratitude. 

" If you had seen his misery," Lucy con- 
tinued, " the tears he shed, and he was then 
so kind to me (for your sake, Eustace) ; 


and indeed, I needed kindness, sucli a load 
of self-reproacli weighed me down. I then 
saw everything in a new Hght ; and what 
would I have given to have seen you but 
once more, if only to have implored your 
forgiveness ! Oh, Eustace, you have been 
well avenged !" 

He buried his face in his hands, but 
did not speak ; and Lucy continued — 

"I must, in justice to Lady Emily 
Maxwell, say, that when she was aware of 
what she had helped to bring about, she 
did all she could to enable me to bear my 
affliction. Papa, too, was so kind, so dif- 
ferent, I was scarcely afraid of him. 
Though neither of us ever spoke of you, 
never named you, I knew that we were 
often thinking of the same thing, of the 
friend we had lost ; and I remembered 
your last words of. advice that last evening 
we were together. I tried to he of use to 
Jtim; I wrote for him. Those were my 
happiest — at least, my least miserable mo- 
ments. That autumn we returned to 


Elsmere. There, everything reminded 
ine of you — of our former happ}^ days. I 
was then aware of how happy I might 
have been there asrain. Those interests 
and occupations from which I had in my 
worldly folly shrunk, were now my only 
resource, my only comfort. There was a 
new clergyman in the place of ]\Ir. Wood- 
ford, living in that very home which 
should, which icould have been yours, had 
it not been for me. He and his wife were 
very kind to me. He was at St. Paul's 
the day you were ordained. He told me 
he saw you only a day or two before you 
left England, I believe. Oh, if I had but 
then seen you, too ! I owe Mr. Eussell 
much. He taught me the Bible. He 
taught me to be, what I am now, the 
village infant-school teacher. When we 
parted, Eustace, how little did you think 
in what a capacity you would next find 
me ! 

" It was a sorrowful day that on which I 
left Elsmere. And I left it never to return !" 


Lucy stopped. 

*' Eustace !" she exclaimed, after a 
minute, " I cannot go on now, some one 
else must tell you what then happened — 
I cannot." 

Lucy shuddered, and she hid her face in 
her hands. " He was innocent I am sure ; 
it was others who — it was unfortunate 
circumstances ! Dear, dear papa ! !" 

After a minute's pause, Lucy continued 
in a hurried excited manner, " We left 
Stanhope-street ! All was changed ; every 
thing, every body was gone ! Mamma 
and I lirst went to a house in the upper 
part of the town, but we did not stay 
there long, mamma's means were so much 
reduced; and all her friends seemed to 
forsake her. She saw no more of any of 
them. I do not think Lady Emily would 
have deserted us, but she was, I believe, 
abroad. I have never heard or seen any- 
thing of her since. We did not continue 
long in Baker-street, and we then changed 
our names — I believe mamma was advised 


to do SO. — One person I One of those 
persons whom we used to see in — in 
former days, still came to visit us." 

Lucy's breath seemed to fail her. " I 
wondered at it at the time," she continued, 
but since it has been explained !" Again 
she paused. — A strange presentiment of 
the name he was about to hear made 
every pulse beat in the nervous frame 
of Eustace. Twice Lucy endeavoured 
to proceed, and twice she failed! At 
last with an evident violent effort over 
her feelings and voice, she once more 
spoke : "Sir Alexander Melville !" 

Eustace started from his seat, his pale 
face became crimson ; he paced in apparent 
agony up and down the room ; the painful 
heaving of his breast was even visible ! 
If there was a human being from whom 
the gentle Christian-like nature of Eustace 
Grey had ever even from the first of their 
acquaintance almost instinctively recoiled, 
it was from Sir Alexander Melville. 

The whole truth at once flashed upon 


his mind. The wedding ring ! the child ! 
he saw it all, and in his agony he struck 
his forehead with his clenched hands as he 
sank nearly breathless into a chair. 

" Oh, Eustace !" cried Lucy, as she fell 
on her knees beside him, " do not judge 
me till you have heard all." She seized 
his hands, clasped them in her own, and 
bending down her head over them pressed 
them to her hps. 

Neither spake for a few minutes, at 
length she continued : " Mamma was mise- 
rable at what she called her degraded 
situation in the world, thus abandoned by 
every one ; and he persuaded her that if 
I would consent to become his wife all 
would be quite different ; that his name, 
his protection, and his position in the 
world would at once replace her in that 
society to which she still clung. (So 
strange ! All I wished was to be forgot- 
ten, and hid from every eye !) He even 
talked of om- retm^ning to Elsmere very 
soon w^henever all was settled, (for mamma 


had told him that that part of the property 
could not be touched, as it was entailed ; 
and that both my brothers being gone it 
must come to me.) And he said that as 
her son-in-law he could act for her and 
assert my right ! 

" ^^len once this idea had taken posses- 
sion of mamma's mind, I was harassed day 
and night, until my senses seemed to fail 
me. I beheve all the misery, the horrors 
I had gone through had benumbed my 
faculties ; I felt as if I had lost the power 
of thinking, even of feehng. Mamma kept 
constantly upbraiding me for my unnatural, 
selfish, ungrateful conduct in refusing to 
comply with her wishes ; that it was my 
positive duty to do so. I had no friend to 
apply to — no one to help me ; at last I did 
not care what became of me — and I gave 
way — we were married ! ! 

" It was not until I heard my own 
voice pronounce the solemn engagement 
into which I then entered to love and 
honour one whom I did not love, whom I 


could not honour, that I awoke from the sort 
of stupor of mind and feehng into which 
I had sunk. How dreadful was that 
moment ! Remorse took possession of 
my soul, I felt how grievously I had sin- 
ned — that I fully deserved all my misery ! 
I shrank even from his kindness (for at 
first he was kind to me, and attentive to 
mamma), but that did not last long, and on 
a sudden he totally changed. He forbad 
me calling myself by his name, he said he 
would not have it disgraced by one whose 
father was — I cannot repeat what he said. 
He reproached mamma for having de- 
ceived, duped, entrapped him ; I really 
thought he had lost his senses. 

"But his conduct was all soon explained. 
It seems that on further examination of Mr. 
Elsmere's will it was found that it was to 
you, Eustace, that the estate went on the 
death of my father, and not to me. Could I 
then have cared for anything, how I 
should have rejoiced to think you would 
have possessed that of which you would 


liave made so good a use. It was, how- 
ever, some time before all this was decided, 
as it required the opinion of different law- 
yers, I beheve ; and in the mean time on a 
sudden other claimants appeared, relations 
of Mr. Elsmere, on the plea of some ir- 
regularity in the will ; and at length they 
made good their right to the property. 

" During: all this time we saw no- 
thing of him ; until one day he came to 
us at Brompton like a madman — ^his 
passions quite beyond his control. He 
accused mamma of having ruined him for 
ever ! that, in short, he was obliged im- 
mediately to leave the country ! and that 
I suppose was true, for I never saw him 
again, nor have I ever heard anything of 
him since; except once, soon after the birth 
of that poor child, when a packet was one 
day left at our lodgings (who by I don't 
know), containing a small sum of money, 
and the direction was in his hand writing. 

"Mamma's bitter disappointment prayed 
on both her mind and body ; she gradually 


sank under it, and I was left alone in tlie 
world, without friends, without the means 
of subsistence, without even a name ! 
Hitherto mamma's jointure (although 
unequal to the habits of expense she had 
acquired) had maintained us, but that of 
course ended with her life. 

" It was at the time of mamma's last 
illness that a merciful Providence sent 
Mr. Neville to my assistance ; had it not 
been for him, I believe I should have lost 
my senses. For I knew not to whom or 
what to turn, I had not a friend, I was 
afraid of every one, I felt I could trust 
nobody. Surely he was sent to me by my 
heavenly Father, to save me from despair, 
from utter ruin !" 

" Do you know icho that kind Mr. 
Neville is ?" inquired Eustace, a gleam of 
pleasure for a minute illumining his coun- 

" Who he is ?" repeated Lucy. " "Wliat 
do you mean?" 

'' He is," continued Eustace, " that 


nameless friend of mine whom you accused 
of so cruelly separating us ! don't you re- 
member? I told you that he would, on 
the contrary, be the means of uniting us 
not only in this world but in the next ! 
My words have proved more literally pro- 
phetically true than at the moment I 
uttered them, I at all anticipated ; how 
wonderful indeed are the ways of Provi- 
dence I how truly they are past our finding 

" And is that kind good Mr. Seville 
really the ' nameless friend ' I used so to 
abuse, so to hate ? The truth was I was 
jealous of his influence over you, think- 
ing he set you against me. Oh, Eustace, 
you must ask his forgiveness for me. But 
did he not know ? could he not have 
guessed ? was it not for your sake he was 
so kind to me ?" 

" He knew nothing till yesterday ; he 
knew not even that you and I were any- 
thing to each other. It was by mere 
accident (or rather by the direction of tlie 


same merciful Providence) that I came 
here myself. I had gone to Oxford in 
search of Neville, where I had left him 
when I left England ; for I wished to see 
him once more hefore I return to India." 

" Eeturn to India !" exclaimed Lucy, 
with a look of utter dismay ; and uncon- 
sciously seizing the arm of Eustace as if 
to retain him with her : " Eeturn to 
India ! Oh, Eustace, are you going 
again to forsake me, to abandon me to 
misery ?" 

" No, no, not yet, dearest, not directly. 
I promise I will not leave you — at least — 
not yet — not yet ! But now listen to me, 
quietly," said he ; for poor Lucy was too 
painfuUy startled by those words to at- 
tend even to what he was saying. " There 
is one thing more I must learn, either 
from you or others. I must know — 
where he is ? where you were married ? 
for I must find out ;" and the pale face 
of Eustace became suddenly flushed with 
the deepest crimson ! " Have you the 


least idea what is become — of — of Sir 
Alexander ?" 

" Oh, no, no," cried Lucj, with an 
expression of terror on her countenance. 
" Xo, Eustace, no. I can make up my 
mind to anything but that. Oh, let me 
live and die here, unknown, forgotten. I 
would sooner part wdth you for ever, 
than run the risk of ever seeing him 
again ! of his knowing anything about me ! 
Oh, spare me, spare me !" and a shudder 
seemed almost to convulse her frame. 

" You mistake me, Lucy," said Eus- 
tace, pressing her trembling hand be- 
tween both of his. '' Grod knows it can- 
not be my wish to reunite you. But — 
perhaps — " Eustace could say no more, 
his voice utterly failed him. " Do you 
know anything of Lady Emily Maxwell ?" 
he resumed, after a minute or two, during 
which he had, by a violent effort, regained 
his composure. " She may know what is 
become of him. Have you any idea where 
she is ?" 

VOL. III. * R 


" No, I know notMng of her — of any 
one ! " said Lucy, in a dejected tone ; 
" and she, . of course, knows nothing of 
me. She has probably forgotten — even 
my existence ! though, once, she was 
very, very kind to me ! But oh, dear 
Eustace, I pray, I entreat of you, let me 
remain here, unknown, forgotten by all, 
except by you and that good Mr. Neville ! 
pray, pray dear Eustace ! For indeed I 
cannot — alone in the world as I am now 
— disgraced — all I wish is to be forgotten, 
as if in my grave !" 

Lucy stopped, and burst into an agou}^ 
of tears. 

As soon as again she was able to listen 
to him, Eustace resumed. 

" I will do nothing, say nothing, but 
what you wish, dearest. But will you 
not, at least, agree to my consulting our 
kind, nameless friend? surely you can 
trust him now ! and he shall advise us. 
What I propose is, first, to try and find 
Lady Emily, and learn from her all she 


can tell me about Sir Alexander ; where 
he is ? and then — " 

" But if she should find me out — betray 
me !" cried Lucy, in evident terror. 

" Cannot you, Lucy, trust meV said 
Eustace, almost reproachfully. " Would 
/ betray you ?" 

Neville entirely agreed with Eustace as 
to the absolute necessity of making every 
possible inquiry respecting Sir Alexander, 
and ascertaining whether it had been a 
real, lawful marriage. Eor to this idea, 
poor Eustace still clung, he could not 
bring himself at once to give up the hope 
of that, which yet he feared Avas next to 
impossible ! and Neville had not the heart 
entirely to crush those hopes. 




Lucy's consent having at last (although 
not without much reluctance on her part) 
been obtained, Eustace went to London. 
On inquiry, he found that Lady Emily 
hved where she formerly had done, and 
was then in town, but before endeavour- 
ing to see her, he repaired to the parish 
chui'ch in one of the outskirts of London, 
where Lucy said her marriage had taken 

It was all but too true ! too certain ! 
a regular marriage ceremony had been 
performed ! Poor Eustace beheld with 
liis own eyes the signatures of Alexander 
Melville and Lucy LusJiington, and those 
also of two witnesses who had been 
present; one, a person then attending 


upon Mrs. Lushington, and Sir Alex- 
ander's servant. 

Knomng, indeed, what had so evi- 
dently been Sir Alexander's sole object in 
this nefarious transaction, Eustace had, at 
last, scarcely retained a hope on the sub- 
ject. But even when we think we have 
none, the certainty of that we have dreaded 
comes upon us with the shock of a fresh 

Thus stricken in heart and broken in 
spirit, Eustace repaired to Lady Emily 
Maxwell's. He gave his card ; and the 
servant announced him. 

" Mr. Grey !" exclaimed Lady Emily, 
starting up from her seat in evident agi- 
tated surprise and pleasure ! " Oh, how 
glad I am to see you ; thank heaven, you 
are returned to England." 

And the sudden variation of colour in 
her face, plainly showed how much the 
sight of him recalled to Lady Emily's 
mind; and as she earnestly looked to- 
wards him and beheld the great change 


wliicli liad taken place in his appearance, 
even during the few years which had 
elapsed since she had last seen him, con- 
science-stricken she averted her eyes. 

For that moment, when she had, in 
thoughtless worldhness, assisted Mrs. 
Lushington in destroying for ever in this 
world the happiness of two beings over 
whose existence she had no right what- 
ever, immediately rushed on her memory, 
and she scarcely dared pronounce the 
name of Lucy. 

" Thank God, I have found her," said 
Eustace. " I returned from India about 
three months ago, to endeavour to find 
and save her." 

Lady Emily looked at him aghast, she 
evidently dared not speak. 

" Her mother was dead," he continued. 
" With her life, of course, ended her 
daughter's means even of subsistence ; 
and thus abandoned by all — her very 
name a disgrace — Lucy was left unpro- 
tected, friendless, destitute !" 


" Oh, mj God !" exclaimed Lady Emily, 
clasping lier hands, and, evidently, greatly 
shocked. " Oh, tell me, where is she 

" In the hands, in the safe keeping of a 
merciful providence," said Eustace, so- 
lemnly. " The Almighty himself watched 
over her, when she was forsaken of all her 
earthly Mends. And worse than for- 
saken," he continued, the colour rushing 
to his face, " deceived, betrayed, injured 
past all reparation ; all chance, all possi- 
bility of happiness gone for ever !" 

Eustace stopped, for he was nearly 
breathless from agitation, but after a 
minute he again resumed, in a still more 
hurried, excited manner. 

" Yes, Lady Emily, a friend of yours, 
taking advantage of her helpless situation 
— and when, from an accumulation of al- 
most unprecedented trials and sufferings, 
she was scarcely enough herself, to be even 
conscious what she did — this friend of 
yours, speculating on her fancied claims 


to the Elsmere property, in which error 
he was encouraged by her mother (who 
had her own object in view), and he 
having persuaded that worldly mother, 
that by her daughter consenting to an 
union with him, they would both be re- 
stored to their former position in society 
— this (yes, I must say it) — this base, 
unjyrincij^led, treacherous friend of yours. 
Lady Emily, so worked upon the stricken, 
enfeebled mind of my poor Lucy, that 
when thus goaded beyond endurance, 
ahnost driven to desperation, she, in an 
evil hour, agreed to an union with him — 
with him, whose very name I cannot bring 
myself to utter ! Scarcely had this ne- 
farious plot been carried into effect, and 
my poor, helpless Lucy thus sacrificed, 
than claimants started up for the Elsmere 
property. They made good those claims, 
and yom- heartless, base, unprincipled 
friend, then immediately abandoned his 

hapless victim to her fate." 

Eustace stopped, apparently exhausted 


by the vehemence of his feehngs. There 
was a dead silence, broken only by Lady 
Emily's sobs, and the almost convulsive 
heavings of Eustace's fe©a^. After a few- 
minutes, however, he had sufficiently re- 
covered to proceed : 

" Yes, he at once abandoned his victim. 
By a mu'acle of Providence, she was res- 
cued from her perilous situation ; by 
another miracle (I may say) I found her. 
The Almighty watched over her, and 
guided me to her/' 

Eustace's head sunk on his clasped 
hands ; he could not utter another word. 
Self-convicted, Lady Emily, too, was silent; 
she actually cowered beneath the look of 
him who now addressed her, and could 
scarcely recognise in the lofty bearing, 
the heart-searching v/ords of the figure 
now before her, the pecuharly mild, 
unassuming Eustace Grrey of former 

At length, in a scarcely audible voice, 
and without even venturino* to raise her 


eyes towards liim, '' Wliere is she now ?'* 
Lady Emily stammered out. 

" I will not reveal lier place of safety 
— no, not even to you, Lady Emily — 
till I know what is become of Hm — of Sir 
Alexander Melville. I must be satisfied 
she is safe from his reach, his power, his 

Lady Emily made no answer ; she 
actually shook with nervous agitation. 
The part she had herself played in the 
whole of poor Lucy's history at once 
flashed upon her conscience ; how (not 
content with separating her for ever from 
her devoted friend, and driving him to 
another world) she had, in her extraordi- 
nary love of worldly scheming, and her 
unprincipled, selfish views, continued to 
injure, and, at length, past all reparation, 
one for whom she had professed, and 
indeed (at the moment) really felt, the 
greatest interest and commiseration. 

" I have now sought you, Lady Emily," 
resumed Eustace, after a pause, " in 


order to discover, if possible, what is 
become of Sir Alexander — whether he still 
lives, and where ; not to claim any redress 
at his hands — that is impossible — but 
rather to secm'e Lucy from his power. 
Can you give me any information ?" 

" I fear not,'' said Lady Emily, her voice 
still scarcely audible. '' I beheve he is 
now somewhere on the continent, but I 
have not seen or heard anything of him for 
a long time. The last tidings I had of 
him were, that he was obliged, in conse- 
quence of the desperate state of his affairs, 
to leave England. But this was nearly 
two years ago. Since that I have heard 
nothing ; and of — all the rest, I was, till 
this moment, perfectly ignorant." 

" Have you any means by which to 
obtain for me the information I want ?" 
said Eustace. 

" Perhaps ; — I will endeavour." 

And Lady Emily's tears (tears, at that 
moment, of unfeigned remorse) nearly 
suffocated her. At length, commanding 


herself as well as she could, " Are you 
sure, Mr. Grrey," said she, in an uncertain, 
broken voice, and without raising her 
eyes towards him, " are you sure it is a 
real marriage ?" 

'' Quite, quite sure, alas !" he hastily 
replied, with an angry, indignant expres- 
sion, so unhke his usual gentle counte- 
nance. " There was, indeed, Httle chance 
of his leaving the legality of his marriage 
doubtful, as in that case he would not 
have been able to make good liis claims 
to the Elsmere property in the right of 
his wife. He would not, in short, have 
obtained his object — his sole object — in 
the diabolical plot. I have, however, 
ascertained that point beyond all possi- 
bility of doubt — rather I may say of hope," 
he added, a convulsive sigh at that 
moment depriving him of the power of 
further utterance ; but, after a few minutes, 
he continued, in a still more nervous, 
agitated manner, " Sir Alexander knew 
far too well what he was about not to 


make sure of liis prey by a real, lawful 
maiTiage. Tlie solemn voavs lie then took 
on himself were, with liim, as easily 
broken as made." 

Again the sharp stings of conscience 
shot through Lady Emily's soul. She 
remembered how it was herself who (in- 
formed by Mrs. Lushington) had first 
made known to Sir Alexander (on the 
failm-e of her own plans for her brother 
and cousin) Lucy's brilliant prospects ! 
It was herself who, even while sheltering 
the poor, heart- stricken girl under her 
roof at Tunbridge, had encouraged .him 
to persevere in his attentions to the sup- 
posed heiress. She had even (as we know) 
afterwards written to him from Eome, 
advising him boldly to lay siege to the 
Lushington family at Elsmere, before new 
aspu'ants should, on the following season 
in town, start up, and while the coast 
was now clear, the poor, devoted cousin 
Eustace being banished to a distant 
world. And all this Lady Emily did 


from no peculiar interest in Sir Alexander. 
She knew Mm to be a heartless, profligate 
man of the world, and cared much less for 
him than for his poor victim. But it was 
from the habit of meddling and of worldly 
intrigue ; the love of excitement ; and 
that careless, easy, unprincipled good 
nature (so miscalled) which does not 
scruple to sacrifice the innocent to the 
guilty, in the carrying on of a scheme, what- 
ever may be its ultimate object or result. 

Lady Emily and Eustace remained for 
some time together in total silence, both 
engrossed by their own painful thoughts, 
and each fearful apparently of betray- 
ing their feelings to the other, if they 
spoke. At length, suddenly rousing him- 
self, Eustace started up. 

" Will you then, Lady Emily," said he, 
" obtain for me all the information you 
can, and without betraying her for whom 
you make the inquiries ?" 

" I will endeavour," she replied, " but 
it may not be immediately that I shall 


succeed. How long will you be in town, 
and where shall I find you ?" 

Eustace gave his address. As her eyes 
fell on the emaciated, nervously-trembhng 
young hand which held it to her, again 
her feehngs overpowered her : 

" I cannot — I dare not ask for your 
forgiveness, Mr. Grey," said she, in a 
trembling voice. " I know — I feel — I have 
injured you past all possible reparation — 
all possible forgiveness." 

" Tor myself," said Eustace, " such for- 
giveness I am bound, as a Christian, to 
yield. But for my poor, blighted Lucy's 
wrongs, it is, indeed, a hard struggle ! I 
will pray that Grod may forgive you, and 
may I be enabled to do so likewise 1" 
And with these words they parted. 

After a day or two in London, spent in 
obtaining necessary information and in- 
structions at the Missionary Society's 
ofiice, Eustace repaired to his mother's, 
at Torquay ; and on his return to town, 
found the following letter from Lady 


Emily at Ned Watson's lodgings in the 
Strand : — 

" I have ohtained the information you 
desire, and transcribe what I have heard 
from a friend abroad : ' Sir Alexander 
Melville is at Baden-Baden — at least, was 
there very lately; but he is constantly 
changing his locale, according to the fluctu- 
ating state of his finances and fortunes at 
play — for he Hves by gambhng, and has, 
indeed, more than once been obhged to 
make a speedy retreat, in consequence of 
very suspicious circumstances at the rouge 
et noir table. He is not alone, but 
he don't even pretend that his companion 
(a foreigner) is his wife, although she ap- 
parently lives with him as such. Of 
course, they are received in onl}^ one 
species of society, even here, oh nous ne 
regardons pas de si pres, as you do in 
England.' " 

Lady Emily then added from herself: 
" If Lucy would, in pity to my remorse, 
allow me to see her, if only once, and 


wherever she ^Yill appoint, I promise I 
will not even inquire as to her abode. 
But I cannot go to my grave without 
imploring her forgiveness, and without, at 
least, endeavouring to minister in some 
way to her worldly comfort, although I 
own I have no right even to ask to be 
allowed to do that. 

'' E. Maxwell." 




When Eustace, on his return to Barton, 
opened the door of Lucy's cottage, a flush 
of joy lit up the faces of the cousins, and 
for a few minutes they looked like the 
Eustace and Lucy of former days. " I 
have been much occupied about you since 
we parted," said he, as he grasped her 
hand, " and I must tell you all. I have 
a great deal to tell, and some of it will, I 
think, give you pleasure to hear." 

" Pleasure /" repeated Lucy, with a 
deep sigh, " from whence can any plea- 
sure now come to me, but from yourself?" 
And she fixed her tearful eyes on his face. 

'' Yes, I repeat it," said Eustace, with 
a smile. ^'I have something to tell you 
which I hope 2cill give you pleasure ! But 


first I must ask whether you have received 
my two letters from London, with the 
account of my visit to Lady Emily, and 
her letter to me. I enclosed them both 
to NevHle." 

Lucy assented in silence. 

" Poor Lady Emily !" continued Eus- 
tace, " really my heart bled for her. May 
God forgive her all the misery of which 
she has been the cause, and, in some 
degree, I really believe the unintentional 
cause. She wished much to know where 
you were, but I kept your secret. Some 
day, perhaps, you may like to see her 
again, and it will always be in your 
power, she lives where she did in Brook- 
street. "Well, Lucy, after I left London 
I went to my mother's. Now you must 
not think me meddling and officious, 
dearest !" And Eustace looked anxiously 
in Lucy's face as he spoke. " But I am 
so bent on her coming here, to be with 
you, that I ventured to name my plan to 
her, even without consulting you first, as 

s 2 


perhaps I slioulcl have done. And if you 
are wilhng, Lucy, if yon think it will be 
a comfort to you — make you happier — " 

" Do you really mean?" cried she, sud- 
denly interrupting him, a bright smile 
illumining her now habitually thoughtful 
countenance, " Do you mean ! Oh, Eus- 
tace ! dear Eustace !" she exclaimed, 
seizing hold of his hands in both hers, 
and tears starting to her eyes. " And 
will she really agree ? How can I express 
my gratitude to her — to you ! Oh, how 
happy we still may be !" 

That word we gave a sore pang to the 
heart of Eustace, for he knew that one 
individual whom poor unconscious Lucy 
included in that word (that happy word 
tve), would be far away in another hemi- 
sphere ! But he did not betray his thoughts, 
and continued : " My poor mother is so de- 
lighted at my plan ! — so prepared to love 
you, Lucy ! — I have told her she will not 
find that a very difficult matter." — And 
an almost convulsive sob burst from the 


heart of Eustace, as he fixed his eyes 
upon her face. " And you mil love her, 
I know, for my sake. So may I not at 
once write and tell her (and he smiled a 
smile of grateful joy) to make all possible 
haste in her necessary preparations for 
leaving Torquay, and that I shall come 
and fetch her, to bring her to her new 
home ? She has not much of this world's 
goods, you know, but her means joined 
to your school will make you both quite 
rich r 

And a gleam of pleasure, such as had 
not for long shone on the features of Eus- 
tace Grrey, lit them up with an almost 
unearthly expression of happiness ! So 
heavenly were the feelings which occa- 
sioned it ! so purified from every particle 
of the dross of selfishness ! 

" Oh, how merciful is the Almighty I" he 
exclaimed, " how different it all was only a 
month ago ! and then, even after I found 
you, Lucy, the misery I have endured at 
the thought of leaving you ! — so alone !" — 


" Leaving me 1" exclaimed she. " But 
why should you leave me ?" 

Eustace took no notice of her question, 
and after a minute, continued : 

" And I have been at another place, 
Lucy ; you will never guess where, I am 
sure. I have been to Elsmere." — Lucy 

" ToElsmere?" 

" Yes, I felt I must go there once more ; 
see all my dear old haunts once again ! 
I need not tell you where I went to first. 
To the churchyard, Lucy. What a dream 
it all appeared to be ! all now so changed. 
A very different dream certainly from the 
one I related to you that evening we sat 
together on the tomb-stone. But that 
was a dream too bright, too happy for 
this world ; and, no doubt, for wise rea- 
sons, it has all been ordered otherwise. 
You, yourself, that evening told me, 
dreams went by contraries; and how 
right you were !" 

For some moments both were silent. 


At length Eustace resumed his narra- 
tive : 

" "While I was there in the church- 
yard — and oh, Lucy, the old grey church ! 
with the bright ivy clinging to it ; and 
all the lilacs in the parsonage garden, in 
full bloom — their fresh perfume. Even 
the songs of the birds — all so exactly as 
it once was. All so brought back the 
past. And then when I thought of — 
of India!" 

Eustace could not go on, he buried his 
face in his hands. Poor Lucy wept also. 

*' This will never do," said he, at last, 
starting from his seat, and hurrying to 
the cottage-door, in order to recover 
sufficient composure to proceed. " This 
is very weak — very wrong — and I want to 
tell you what you will like to hear ; — that 
I have seen your friend, Mr. Eussell ; and 
I have heard much from him that has 
made me so happy about your dear father ! 
Oh, Lucy, we have reason indeed to be 
thankful. Quite a load is off my heart 


How wonderfully is everything overruled 
for good. But I must go on with my 

" I had gone to look at your poor 
brother's monument (a workman whom 
I remembered formerly, and whom I 
chanced to meet, having told me of it) ; 
while I was reading the inscription, Mr. 
Eussell came through the churchyard by 
the path, which you know passes close 
to it. So I went boldly up to him, and 
told him who I was; and named you, 
too. But he at once recognised me, 
having, he said, been at St. Paul's the 
day I was ordained. I wish you had 
seen the look of astonishment, and, really, 
evident pleasure with which he welcomed 
me. He is a good, kind-hearted man, I 
am sure, and we were soon as old friends ; 
we were a long time together in the church- 
yard. I had so much to hear from him ; 
and there was so much he wanted to know 
about you. He was of course not aware 
— he did not know — seeing me returned 


to England, lie thought perhaps, that — 
But we must not talk of all this. I told 
him of your present occupation, and how 
thankful you were to him for having 
taught you to be useful. Oh, that was 
your poor father's word, you know." 

And how much that word recalled to 
them both ? 

" Well," continued Eustace, " I went 
to your garden ! Shall I stop, Lucy ? 
had you rather I did not tell you any 
more?" said he (for her sobs could no 
longer be stifled). 

" Oh, no ; go on, go on, I like to hear 
it aU." 

'' Yes ; and I am sure all I have to tell 
you will give you pleasure — a sort of 
pleasure, at least. Your garden, dearest, 
was all dressed up as it was formerly, 
when I used to help you to keep it ; it 
was gay \vith flowers, and looked quite 
like former days. While I was still loi- 
tering about in it (looking, I believe, for 
the identical plants I myself had planted), 


Mr. Eussell again joined me, and a gen- 
tleman with him. It was Mr. Elsmere. 
Mr. Eussell immediately explained to him 
who I was, and apologized for my being 
found in the children's garden, saying I 
wished much to see all the haunts of my 
boyhood. At first, Mr. Elsmere looked 
at me, I thought, rather askance, and did 
not certainly appear inclined to give me a 
very cordial reception ; but when he was 
satisfied that I had come with no sinister 
object in view (what he fancied it could be, I 
cannot imagine), he was really kind to me." 

Eustace paused, and seemed, for a time, 
lost in thought. 

*' I never knew of the possibility of my 
succeeding to that property," he at length 
said, " until I received that last parting 
letter from your father ; and it told me 
of so much which went so much nearer to 
my heart, his information on that subject 
made httle or no impression on me, and 
as matters are, what good would it have 
done to me ? — it is all better as it is." 


There was for some time a dead silence, 
until Eustace resumed : " Mr. Elsmere 
appears to be a good, plain country squire ; 
not exactly of Lady Rainsforth's set and 
calibre of society, perhaps," added he, one 
of his old playful smiles of former days, 
on his countenance. But he had no 
sooner uttered these words than he re- 
pented, for he directly saw the many 
recollections and painful feelings to which 
they had given rise. 

" Oh, forgive me, dear Lucy," he ex- 
claimed, " if I have unthinkingly recalled 
the past to you ! but it seems so like old 
happy days, being thus with you, seeing 
you, hearing you, talking with you, that for 
the moment I forgot how all was changed. 
But I must tell you one thing more, because 
I am sure it will please you. As we were 
walking away from the garden, I chanced 
to turn my head, and I saw your grey 
pony at its old usual place, with its head 
over the bars of the gate, evidently ex- 
pecting its accustomed piece of bread. 


Poor animal ! I really think it knew me. 
It has grown very old and white, and I 
believe nearly blind. I told Mr. Elms- 
mere what a favourite it had been, and he 
promised me it should be taken care of, 
and mercifully put an end to when it 
could no longer take care of itself I am 
sure those Elsmeres are good, kind 
people ; and they are kind, Mr. Eussell 
tells me, to all your poor friends in the 
village — in short, he speaks very highly 
of them, and it is pleasant to think of 

" Mr. Elsmere civilly invited me into 
the house, but that was more than I was 
equal to, unless I could have gone alone. 
I had not courage to see your place — your 
room occupied by others. I think you 
will have a visit from Mr. Eussell some of 
these days, and that, surely you will not 
object to." 

Lucy made no answer. She seemed 
evidently to wish to turn to other sub- 
jects; and as soon as she had recovered 


her composure, she said, " And when will 
your mother come ?" 

"As soon as possible," he replied. 
*' Now that I have your acquiescence to 
my plan, I shall write to her directly — by 
to-morrow's post; and a few days after 
that, go to Torquay to fetch her. And 
then, dearest," he added, drawing a long 
breath, " then, when I have seen you 
quite comfortably settled together, then I 
must, you know, leave you." 

" Leave me !" exclaimed Lucy, changing 
colour, " leave me ! why, where are you 
gomg : 

" To my duty, Lucy — to my assigned 
post — back to India !" 

A bitter cry burst from poor Lucy's 
lips, forced from them by the startled 
agony of her heart. 

"Oh, Eustace!" she exclaimed, "why 
— why leave me ? Why must you again 
forsake me ? I cannot, cannot paxt from 
you — you, my only friend on earth !" 

" Say not that, dearest. Surely, God 


has in mercy raised up many friends for 
you, most unlooked-for friends even." 

" But why must you leave me ? Could 
you not equally do your duty to God 
and your fellow-creatures, and remain 
here — at least, in England ? With your 
talents, Eustace, your goodness, you can- 
not fail of obtaining employment at home, 
and then you would not forsake me'' 

" It is impossible, Lucy, for many rea- 
sons; but I cannot tell you all those 
reasons just now. You surely cannot 
tliink I would leave you if I could pos- 
sibly help it — you, who are dearer to me 
than my own existence. But don't let 
us talk about all this just now ; let us 
think of the happiness it will be to me to 
know of you with my mother — she whom 
I have always so wished to be of more 
use and comfort to than circumstances 
hitherto have made possible ; but now 
you will supply my place." 

Eustace got up from his seat, and hold- 
ing out his hand to Lucy — " I may not 


see you again, to-day," said lie, " but to- 

'' Oh, Eustace !" she cried, as she 
grasped his hand in both of hers, " I feel 
as if I can never trust you now. Every 
time I lose sight of you, I think I shall 
never see you again. You do not mean 
to deceive me — to leave me without telling 
me !" 

" Have I ever deceived you, Lucy ?" 

" Oh, no, no ! but everything terrifies 
me now," she continued ; " and remember, 
in my excuse, all I have gone through — 
all I have suffered." 

" I assure you, I am only going to the 
rectory," said Eustace, assuming a cheer- 
ful tone. " I have not yet even seen our 
good friend, Neville, for I came straight 
to you ', and I have much to tell him also. 
Cheer up, dearest — will you not, for my 
sake ?" 

Lucy's child, little Frederick, was at 
some distance, playing wdth some card 
letters scattered about on the floor beside 


him. Eustace took the child up in his 
arms, and bringing him to his mother, 
placed him on her lap, twining his little 
arms round her neck. Lucy bent her 
head down over him, and her tears fell 
fast on the unconscious child's face. 



The spirits and nerves of Eustace had 
been both much tried and excited during 
the last fortnight, and they now sank 
under the depressing reaction. The sad 
certainty to which he had arrived with 
regard to Lucy's mamage, had naturally 
cast a deeper gloom of depression over his 
spirits ; and his anxious, agitating meet- 
ing with his mother and Lady Emily in 
addition, had been almost too much for 
his enfeebled frame. 

During" aU this time also a severe 
struggle had been going on within him. 
For when relieved of the tortures of 
anxiety on Lucy's account, other feelings 
had resumed their full power over him, 



and when now communing with his own 
heart, and probing it to the quick, he was 
aware that his only safety was in flight, 
immediate flight ! For he could not but 
acknowledge to himself that, day by day, 
the passion of his hfe was attaining more 
and more the mastery over even his prin- 
ciples. The world was no longer now, as 
it once had been, the obstacle to their 
union. Lucy was now as entirely weaned 
from it as he was himself; nothing now 
separated them but that hated barrier, 
which he could not even think of but his 
very blood cm'dled. And all these tu- 
multuous, torturing feelings, Eustace well 
knew, could not be mastered, except by 
entire, hopeless separation from the object 
of his doating affection, and by again 
turning his mind to higher objects of 
interest. In short, he was aware there 
was but one straight path of duty l3efore 
him, and he resolved on asrain at once 
returning to his missionary labours in 
India, and endeavouring, in those labours, 


to subdue, at least, if he could not entirely 
uproot, a passion which he was now aAvare 
he could not control, as long as he was 
within possible reach of the object of it. 
It was, he knew, the design of the 
Christian religion to moderate, not alto- 
gether destroy feelings implanted in our 
nature, in order to soften and elevate the 
character ; but with poor Eustace it was 
" taste not, touch not, handle not!' 

He dared not for a moment trust him- 
self, even in imagination, to look to that 
eartlily fehcity wliich might have been 
liis, and of wliich he seemed to be de- 
prived, not by the will of God, but by the 
wickedness, the cruelty of man ! And 
when, before the throne of grace, he en- 
deavoured, in compliance with his Divine 
Master's injunction to pray even for his 
enemies, he could only, in the words of 
that blessed Master, say, " Father, forgive 
them, for they knew not what they did." 
But when Eustace Gray came to this 
desperate resolution of again (and for ever) 

T 2 


quitting liis native land, it was not with- 
out the severest inward conflict ; for, 
besides this devoted affection, this all- 
engrossing passion for one who had filled 
his heart from the very first years of his 
existence, no one could have a more ex- 
quisite relish for the various refined enjoy- 
ments of social life. Peculiarly cultivated 
himself, he needed the interchange of 
mind with mind ; and with a capacity for 
the highest intellectual communion with 
his fellow-creatures ; endued with the 
tenderest feelings of our nature, and while 
life was still all before him, he felt he was 
sentencing himself to perpetual solitude of 
heart and mind ! to an existence devoted 
to strangers — heathens indeed — whom he 
should quit as soon as they ceased to be 
such, only to begin the same dreary com- 
panionship again. 

Wlien he had, three years before, left 
the shores of England (equally intending 
never to return) he had been supported in 
hi& self-sacrifice by the fever of passion; 


by a romantic fervour of religious devo- 
tion ; even by a keen sense of injury, 
believing, as be then did, that botli Lucy 
and ber fatlier bad voluntarily consigned 
bim to a perpetual exile, ^vitbout even one 
kind farewell word. He tben, moreover, 
scarcely knew to wbat be was pledging 
bimself. But now all was different. AVitb 
enfeebled bealtb and broken spirits, be 
was fully aware of all be bad to renounce, 
all be bad to endure ; and bitter as bad 
been bis feelings, wben be imagined tbat 
it was Lucy's preference for tbe pleasm-es 
and flatteries of tbe world wbicb bad 
di'iven bim to bis Hving grave, yet sucb 
feelings appeared now ligbt to bim in 
comparison of tbose from wbicb be now 
suffered. Tbe abnost maddening tbougbt, 
tbat altbougb Lucy bad been, as by a 
miracle, restored to bim tbe same loving, 
innocent being sbe ever was, weaned from 
all tbose worldly follies wbicb bad before 
been a barrier to tbeir union, clinging to 
bim as ber only friend and protector (more 


than ever also needing that protection), 
yet through the unprincipled treachery of 
others that they were entirely and for 
ever separated ! 

Engrossed by these distracting thoughts, 
Eustace wandered about alone, for some 
time before he entered the rectory. 
Seville perceived at once by his counte- 
nance, the suffering, depressed state of 
his mind, and his heart bled for him. 
Eustace briefly related all he had done 
and ascertained since he had left him. 

" I fear, then," said Neville, " you are 
not in anyway more at ease in mind than 
you were when you left this ?" 

" Yes, thank Grod, I am," said Eustace, 
"for I have finally made up my mind, 
And I have also accomplished what my 
heart was set upon — my mother coming 
to reside here with my poor Lucy ; (if 
you will admit her as your parishioner)," 
he added, with an attempt at a smile ; 
'' and I have fixed my own fate." — I have 
secured a passage on board an Indiaman, 


to sail from Spitlieacl the 7tli of next 
month. It is all settled." 

Having uttered these words, Eustace 
sank back in his chair, struggling in vain 
with his feelings. Both his mind and 
nerves had been strained to the utmost, 
and having now in a manner pronounced 
his own death-warrant, he could bear up 
no longer. Ne\dlle said all that was kind 
and encouraging to his poor young friend. 
He was quite aware of all the dangers of 
his present situation ; quite satisfied he was 
right in his resolution ; he honoured him 
for it, and would not, for the world, have 
attempted to dissuade him. But it went 
to his heart to part with one who, even 
from the very first of their acquaintance, 
had excited liis interest in a manner no 
one else ever had. 

" I purpose," said Eustace (when he was 
sufiiciently composed to speak), "going 
the end of this week to Torquay for my 
mother. We shall, probably, return here 
by the middle of tlie next ; hardly before. 


as there will, of course, be much for her 
to settle, when leaving a place which has 
so long been her home. 

The Sunday after my retui-n," Eustace 
continued, in a hurried, nervous manner, 
" will be the first Sunday in the month, 
and, consequently, I conclude, when the 
holy sacrament is administered. I want 
you to let me reheve you of your duty 
that day ; and then — on Monday — the 
very next day — I bid you, my kind, kind 
friend, farewell — for ever !" 

" No, you do not bid me farewell that 
day," said Neville, grasping his young 
friend's hand ; " I do not part from you. 
Grey, till I see you safe on board." 

Eustace could not speak ; he returned 
the pressure of his friend's hand, and, 
slowly rising from his seat, he in silence 
left Neville's room, and repaired to his 
own. "When there, he sat for a consider- 
able time motionless, absorbed in thought ; 
and so absorbed, so overpowered, he 
scarcely knew what was passing in his 


own mind. At length, rousing himself 
out of his dreamy state, he prepared to 
ivrite to Lucy what he felt he could not 
say to her. — 

" You ask me, Lucy, why I return to 
India ? Why I cannot remain with you 
here ? or, at least, in England ? I could 
not, for many reasons, answer you by 
word of mouth ; but will now explain to 
you why I have come to this resolution ; 
and I am sure when I do so, you will 
understand me, see the necessity of my 
decision, and assist me in acting up to 
what I know to be my duty. 

" Lucy ! you have been, and are still, the 
passion of my life ! and you are now the 
wife of another ! I do not remember the 
time when you did not engross every feel- 
ing of my heart and soul, when I did not 
idolise you. This frantic passion caused 
the first sin of my youth, when I secretly 
bound you to myself. Made aware of my 
fault, I renounced you, and endeavoured 
to forget you in the duties of the sacred 


profession in which I had engaged. But, 
how many a time, when kneehng in seem- 
ing devotion before my Creator, it was 
your image I worshipped, it was you who 
were the idol I had set up in my heart. 
God claimed that heart for himself, and in 
mercy he withheld you from me. Your 
father, in ignorance of heaven's decree, 
once gave you to me. But the world had 
then, for a while, taken possession of your 
affections. I do not say this in reproach, 
dearest ; I now know it was not your own 
doing ; and I thank Grod that it was not. 
It would have gone hard with me had I 
passed through life thinking you had 
ceased to care for your old playfellow. 
I now see all was overruled for my good ; 
I needed correction (God knows I have 
had it). I needed to be brought to m}^ 
senses ; and you, through whom I sinned, 
were made the instrument of my chastise- 
ment. For I was to be taught, that it 
was not to the creature that such adora- 
tion as I have paid to you is due. Had 


heaven permitted that you should be 
mine, I fear I should scarcely have looked 
to another world for paradise ! that I 
should not have desired, have imagined 
any possible higher fehcity than that I 
should have enjoyed here below worship- 
ping you. Such were my impious feeHngs. 
Again I acknowledge they needed chas- 
tisement. And alas, they need it still. I 
dare not trust myself to the intoxication 
of your society, it is now sin to me. You 
belong to another, we must part. But 
there is another world, a paradise above, 
'where the T\dcked cease from troubling, 
and where the weary are at rest ;' there we 
shall soon meet to part no more ; to that 
future world I now look, but in this, I 
must bid you farewell for ever ! 

" Having now made my confession, Lucy, 
you, surely, will not again ask me why 
I cannot remain with you ? And there are 
other reasons besides for my leaving you 
— ^leaving England ! reasons which force 
me to go back to India. 


" I am utterly penny less ! At this 
moment dependent on my mother's kind- 
ness, and tliat of my good friend, Neville, 
and that must not continue ; my whole 
nature revolts at such dependence. I 
must work in my Master's vineyard — 
finish my task. You talk of my talents 
being sure to obtain employment for me. 
Dear, innocent, partial Lucy, you know 
Kttle of this world; and besides those 
talents you talk of (if I possess them at 
all), are, I feel, especially (indeed, perhaps, 
solely) adapted to that very work to which 
I appear to be appointed — the missionary 
work ! and having put my hand to the 
plough I must not turn back. Now that 
I have confessed my weakness to you, I 
am sure you will, in kindness, in pity, 
assist me in bearing this, my last trial, 
with resignation and fortitude. What it 
has cost me to come to this resolution of 
leaving you for ever, no words can tell, 
proving but too plainly its necessity. 

" I shall go on Friday next to Tor- 


quay, and hope to bring my mother back 
with me the middle of the following 
week. How merciful of the Almighty to 
grant me the comfort of leaving you with 
her ! I cannot express the weight that is 
taken off my mind. 

" And then, Lucy — to show you I have 
no wish or intention any way to deceive 
you — then, on the 6th of next month — 
Monday week, I bid you farewell. We 
shall, I hope, have two or three whole 
days together after my return from Tor- 
quay; and we shall pass a Sunday to- 
gether, the first for many a day; and 
when we next meet, it will be to enjoy 
an eternal Sabbath in heaven never again 

to part. 

" Eustace." 

Late that evening, Eustace walked down 
to the village, and perceiving one of Lucy's 
pupils, he gave her his letter to take to 
her mistress. He watched at a httle dis- 
tance, to be sure it was safely delivered, 
and then slowly returned to the rectory. 


The next morning, he purposely repaired 
to the school at the time when he knew 
Lucy's little flock would be with her. On 
entering, he went straight up to her and 
took her hand in his. She was deadly 
pale, and when she tried to speak, tears 
rushed into her eyes and her lips qui- 

" Let me take your place with your 
pupils, this morning," said he, " wliile 
you rest yourself. I beheve I have nearly 
as much practice in this way as yourself," 
said he, forcing a smile, and he took the 
book from her hands. "Where are you 
reading ?" 

Lucy pointed to the chapter without 
speaking ; as she did so, a tear fell upon 
the pale Vandyke hand which was holding 
the book. It was the parable of the Pro- 
digal Son. Eustace read it to the children, 
and then explained it to their capacity. At 
first his voice trembled, but he soon re- 
covered himself. They all crowded eagerly 
around him, for children hke novelty ; and 


he possessed, to a peculiar degree, the 
art of attracting and instructing the ig- 
norant. He listened to their usual con- 
cluding hymn; the deep tones of his 
musical voice (that voice which Lady 
Eainsforth had so admired) often joining 
in with their infant notes, and he dis- 
missed them with a prayer and bless- 

" Lucy," said he, when they had all 
left the school-house, " come, and let us 
take an old Elsmere-like walk together; 
it will refresh you after your morning's 


He drew her arm within his. They 

wandered for some time amid the lanes 

and fields. They talked of Elsmere, the 

Eussells, the old white pony; but they 

spoke not of their approaching separation. 

His letter was never alluded to. 

On the Friday of the following week, 

Lucy dismissed her little flock sooner than 

usual, for it was the day on which she 

expected Eustace and his mother to arrive 


from Torquay. The children were still 
loitering round the school-house door, 
when the sound of carriage wheels was 
heard, and, in a minute, Lucy was folded 
in Mrs. Grey's arms. 

There was that evening a glow of serene 
happiness on the countenance of Eus- 
tace, such as had not been there for 
years. It seemed as if there was no 
room left in his heart for any other feel- 
ing but that of pious gratitude. And as 
Lucy was busying herself to arrange the 
scanty furniture of her little cottage par- 
lour for the comfort of the new inmate, 
Eustace took little Frederick on his knee, 
the child played with the watch-chain 
which hung round his neck, and then 
attracted by the ring on his hand (once 
Lucy's ring), the poor unconscious boy, 
with the vague smile of pleased infancy, 
looked up into the face of Eustace, and 
pointing to it, lisped out the only word it 
yet attempted — " Mam-ma I" 

Eustace remained this evening at Lucy's 


cottage until a late hour ; they had all so 
much to hear— so much to say — so much 
to arrange. Before parting for the night, 
he knelt down with her and his mother, 
to return thanks to the Almighty for all 
his mercies. He prayed for them that 
they might pass their days together in 
peace ; for himself that he might submit 
in humble resignation to the will of his 
heavenly Father ! 

The next morning the inmates of the 
school-house seemed each to have found 
her place. Mrs. Grey appeared to be quite 
at home, settled with her habitual em- 
ployment at one end of the room, Lucy in 
her plain black dress (for she had never 
left off mourning since her father's death) 
occupied with her pupils at the other. 
And this was the Lucy Lushington of 
former days ! she whom Eustace used to 
see so brilliant with health, spirits, and 
this world's fashionable decorations — now 
so fit an " helpmate " for him — and from 
whom he was for ever separated ! 

VOL. III. u 


As soon as the cliildren were gone — 
'' Oh, Eustace !" said Lucy, hurrying up 
to him, " how like your dear mother is 
to you ! I am so thankful it is so. Her 
eyes — her smile, so remind me of yours ; 
and it will be such a pleasure to look at 
her when — " 

She could not proceed. But, after a 
minute or two, recovering herself, and 
leading him up to the chimney-piece — 
" Look," said she, " what she has brought 
with her." 

It was the sketch of the Colosseum at 
Eome, in a plain wooden frame, which had 
once hung in the parlour of the house Eus- 
tace inhabited at Ashford. At the corner 
of the drawing, in Lucy's handwriting, 
was "Eome, February 17, 1828." It was 
the day on which Eustace had, between six 
and seven years before, arrived at Eome ! 
They both gazed on the beautiful ruin in 
silence. How vivid to both was the re- 
membrance of that moonhght night when 
they had together sat beside that large 


stone cross ! There was also another relic 
of bygone days which soon attracted the 
attention of Eustace : it was the small black 
clock which formerly stood on the chim- 
ney-piece in his uncle's study in Stanhope- 
street ! And what a host of recollections 
did its peculiar, deep, bell-toned vibrations 
bring to liis mind ! 

V 2 



The next day was the last sabbath, and 
the last day the cousins were to spend 
together upon earth ! 

Mrs. Grey said she would remain at 
home, and take charge of the child; so 
Lucy walked to church by herself, taking 
her usual place in one of the free seats. 
Eustace they had not seen that morning. 
It was, as he had anticipated, the Sacra- 
ment Sunday, and according to his desire, 
he took the whole duty on himself. Once 
again, Lucy heard his much-loved voice 
proclaim God's laws to his creatures ; but 
it was not without a shudder when she 
caUed to mind who had sat beside her 
that day in Quebec- street Chapel, when 


she had first heard those deep, impressive 

The morning service ended, Eustace 
went up to the pulpit. He gave out his 
text. It was the same from which he 
had preached that very day — " Love not 
the world." How painfully did those 
words startle poor Lucy ! and how much 
did they recall ! But although the text 
was the same, the application was now 
totally different. The preacher did in- 
deed begin by pointing out to his hearers 
the many reasons why the heart should 
not be given to this world, showing its 
dangers, trials, temptations, sorrows, and 
disappointments, and, at best, the tran- 
sient nature of its joys — in short, that 
"here below we have no abiding city." 
But, on a sudden, quitting the contempla- 
tion of this world of sin and sorrow, he, 
in a burst of the most powerful, sublime 
eloquence, raised the mind to that future 
blessedness to which all Christ's faithful 
followers may through him aspire ; to those 


joys " which eye hath not seen, nor ear 
heard, and whch it hath not entered into 
the heart of man to conceive ;" to that fu- 
ture world where God will " wipe away all 
tears from all faces," where there will be 
" no more death, nor sorrow, nor weeping." 

The total change in the countenance 
— the voice — the whole bearing of the 
preacher — the look of almost divine in- 
spiration which shone in his eyes — the 
brilliant flush on his before-pallid face, 
called to mind the description in Holy 
Writ of the martyr Stephen, when (ar- 
raigned before the Jewish Sanhedrim) 
we are told, that '' they looking on him 
saw his face as it had been the face of an 
angel ; and he being full of the Holy 
Ghost, looked stedfastly to heaven, and 
saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing 
at the right hand of God." 

All eyes were fixed upon the preacher 
— all but those of one mourning figure in 
the free seats below ; for Lucy dared not 
look at him. She felt his wcrds to be 


peculiarly addressed to herself, bidding 

her look for her home in that future 

world where sorrow, sin, and suffering 

would be no more ; that they were, in 

short, their final leave-taking upon earth. 

The sermon over — again the same voice, 

in the name of his divine Master, invited 

Lucy to the table of the Lord ; and at the 

foot of the cross to cast away all her cares 

and sorrows. *' Come unto me all ye that 

labour and are heavy laden, and I will 

give you rest." Lucy was among the 

last of those who availed themselves that 

day of the invitation. When Eustace 

approached her with the sacred elements, 

her hand shook so violently, he was 

obliged to steady the cup to her lips. 

But his trembled not. All earthly 

feelings were with him, at that moment, 

overcome ; like St. Paul, the world was 

crucified to him, and he to the world. 

He saw in the lowly mourning figure 

kneeling before him, not his adored Lucy, 

but one arrayed in the bright garment 


of salvation, — one already a denizen of 

Lucy returned to her place, and fell upon 
her knees. The service ended, and all 
gradually left the church ; but still there 
Luc}^ knelt. On a sudden, she felt an icy 
cold hand laid upon her's. It was that 
same hand, whose deathlike chill had so 
startled her that last evening which she 
and Eustace had spent together in Stan- 

" Lucy," said he, in a low voice, " every 
one is gone ; we will go home together ; 
take my arm." 

She rose from her knees, and they 
walked back to her cottage in silence, her 
hand still locked in his. 

Eustace took no part in the evening 
service ; the previous excitement of his 
feelings seemed to have exhausted him. 
The fire of his eye was gone. The brilliant 
flush of colour in his cheek had now given 
place to a deathlike paleness. 

They all three went together to church 


in the afternoon ; and on their return home, 
Neville accompanied them to Lucy's cot- 
tage. " Will you let me join you at tea, 
Mrs. Grey ?" said he, " that we may 
spend this evening together." 

Neville's kind object in this proposal 
was evident, to endeavour to assist his 
suffering friend through the trying hom^s 
of this last evening. He addressed him- 
self chiefly to Mrs. Grrey, she being the 
one best able at that moment for the effort 
of conversation. At length the evening 
being far advanced, Neville got up and 
wished her good night. " You must not 
let Grey sit up late," said he to his mo- 
ther. " I fear he has over-fatigued him- 
self. He wished to do the whole duty ; 
but I am afraid it has been too much for 
him. Don't let liim sta}" too long with 

Eustace accompanied his friend to the 
door of the cottage. 

" Grey," said the latter, " take my ad- 
vice ; do not protract yom- time of trial ; 


and remember we have a long journey 
before ns to-morrow, we must leave this 
very early." 

" I must see her once again to-morrow 
morning before I go. I will not even 
speak to her ; but," added Eustace, " we 
agreed we could not part to-night, with- 
out being able once more to say, to- 
morrow /" 

Neville looked at his poor young- 
friend with tearful eyes. On his depar- 
ture, Eustace returned to his seat at the 
table. Upon it was laying Lucy's little 
Testament. He took it up ; it opened of 
itself at his text that morning. There 
was still the pencil-mark he had himself 
made at the verse. He turned over the 
leaves. Many other verses were also 
marked, but not by him. He could trace 
and apply them all. 1 Corinthians, xi., 
describing the trials and sufferings of the 
apostle in his missionary labours, " In 
perils in the wilderness, in perils in the 
sea, in painfulness, in hunger, in thirst, 


in cold and weariness." A deep sigh 
escaped from the breast of Eustace. His 
hand shaded his face from the light, while 
his eyes were fixed upon the book. Thus 
they remained for some time in silence. 

At length, Eustace suddenly said, 
" Shall I read you a chapter, my dear 
mother, for I think we are none of us 
much disposed to conversation." 

Mrs. Grrey assented. He turned to the 
14th St. John's gospel, containing the 
Saviour's parting words to his disciples. 
His voice often nearly failed, but still he 

" I will pray the Father, and he shall 
give you another Comforter, that he may 
abide mth you for ever, even the Spirit of 
Truth. ... I will not leave you comfort- 

These last words were nearly inaudible, 
and the head of Eustace sank down on 
the book before him. He could no longer 
command himself. 

" I will not let you read any more, 


Eustace," said his mother. "You are 
quite worn out ; you really had better try 
and get some rest — do, my dear boy." 

Mrs. Grrey rose from her seat, and put- 
ting her arm round his neck, as she fondly 
kissed his forehead, " Good-night, Grod 
bless you !" 

Eustace got up ; he tenderly embraced 
his mother ; then turned towards Lucy. 
They both for a minute stood immoveable, 
and then, as if mutually impelled by a 
sudden irresistible feeling of the purest, 
devoted affection, the play-fellows rushed 
into each other's arms. 

Poor Mrs. Grey's tears fell fast. But 
at length, gently drawing Lucy towards 
her, " You must now go, Eustace ; in- 
deed, you must — you must have some 
rest; and to-morrow morning — " 

" Yes, yes, to-morrow," he repeated ; 
" still once more to-morrow /" And with 
that word Eustace left the cottage. 



The sun had not long risen, when Eustace 
next morning left the rectory. All was 
yet still and asleep in the village ; every 
casement and door was yet closed, save 
that of the infant-school house. Lucy's 
child stiU slumbered in its cradle ; but she 
and Mrs. Grey had long left their beds. 
Both started up when they saw Eustace 
at the threshold. Lucy turned deadly pale, 
and she caught hold ol iMrs. Grey's arm for 
support, for she knew the dreadful moment 
for their final separation was arrived. 

" God bless and preserve you, dearest 
mother !" said Eustace, in a faltering 
voice, as he again and again embraced 
her. " Take care of my poor Lucy. May 
the God of heaven watch over vou both ! 


Only a short, a very short time, and we 
shall all meet to part no more." 

Lucy sank insensible on Mrs. Grrey's 
breast. Eustace imprinted one long fare- 
well kiss on her bloodless cheek. She felt 
it not ! He again replaced on her hand 
the small fretted gold ring with which 
he had thoughtlessly bound her to himself 
in Elsmere churchyard seven years before ! 
On it was now engraven the word Ex- 
celsior, thus betrothing her for eternity ! 
Again he clasped that cold hand, which 
hung lifeless at her side, to his lips — to his 
heart ! Neville appeared at the cottage- 

" I understand ; I am ready to go 
now," said Eustace, with an odd, fixed, 
bewildered look; and he hurried up to 
him. On reaching the threshold, he once 
more stopped, and looked back. He 
clasped his hands, and raised his tearful 
eyes to heaven. Then gently closing the 
cottage-door, " It is all over !" he ex- 
claimed, as he grasped the arm of his 


friend, and without uttering another word, 
tliey hurried on to the rectory. The 
carriage which was to convey them to their 
destination was ready at the door. Eus- 
tace sprang into it ; Neville immediately 
followed, and in a minute more the sound 

of its receding wheels had died away. 

By daybreak next morning, Eustace 
and his friend Neville left Portsmouth to 
join the Indiaman, then laying at Spit- 
head, along with many other outward- 
bound vessels, their white sails already 
loosed and shivering in the wind ; all the 
usual preparations for immediate departure 
were going on. The last anchor was 
weighed, and the wind blowing freshly 
from the eastward, the ship was shortly 
making all plain-sail steering for the 
Needles. Neville and Eustace paced the 
deck together, the latter over and over 
repeating the same injunctions to his 
friend concerning her to whom he had for 
ever bid adieu, that he might, once more, 
hear a name he would never again hear 


from the lips of any liuman being — never 
even again hear his own voice pronounce. 
The order was at length given for all 
strangers to leave the ship. Neville, for 
the last time, grasped his young friend's 
hand, as they parted at the gangway. 
The boat shoved off; Eustace never took 
his eyes from it, till she disappeared 
under the stern ; he then hurried to the 
poop again to w^atch its progress as it 
gradually lessened to the view. The 
friends waved their hands in a last 
farew^ell. Neville's eyes remained fixed 
on the tall, black, motionless figure 
which leant against the stern-rail, until it 
was lost amid the crowd of other passen- 
gers, all gathering on that spot, to take a 
farewell look of their native shores. Still 
the boat conveying Neville back to land 
was visible, as it rose and fell on the 
surface of the waves ; and still Eustace 
felt there was a link between him and all 
he loved on earth ! But suddenly a 
ship of war, just arrived from a foreign 


station, saluted the admirars flag ; and the 
white smoke from her guns, gradually 
extending as the thin vapour was wafted 
by the wind, completely shut out all 
distant objects jfrom the view. 

It served as a drop-scene upon the for- 
mer existence of Eustace Grrey, leaving 
him alone — with his Grod ! 

At the expiration of about a twelve- 
month from that morning when Lucy had 
parted from the dear friend of her youth, 
she received a letter from him, telling of 
his safe arrival at Calcutta ; that he was 
the better of the voyage, and felt happy at 
the thought of his dear mother and Lucy 
being together, and that best of friends, 
Neville, watching over them. 

Nearly a twelvemonth now again 
elapsed before further inteUigence reached 
her. Eustace was again at Burmah, and 
had resumed his missionary labours, but he 
almost feared his health would not allow 
him to remain much longer at that 

VOL. III. ^ X 


station, as lie felt quite unequal to his 
work, and must, therefore, seek some less 
pernicious locahty, if still permitted by 

the Lord to labour in his vineyard. 

Many, many more months again crept 
on in anxious hope and wearing disap- 
pointment. No farther tidings of Eus- 
tace came. 

At last, one morning, Neville walked 
slowly up to the door of Lucy's cottage, 
having a small parcel in his hand. There 
was a peculiar expression on his face, at 
sight of which, Lucy's heart began to 

"Have you any news of Eustace?" said 
she, eagerly. 

"Yes," repHed he, "the best." 

" What ! is he coming home ?" ex- 
claimed Lucy, the blood all rushing to 
her cheeks. 

Neville took her hand in his. " He is 
gone to his home — to his home in heaven ! 
He is gone to his reward !" 

It was some time before poor Lucy 


could listen to more. Neville then said 
all that was kind and consolatory to her, 
raising her mind to that blessed home in 
another world where, before long, they 
would meet, never again to part ; where 
her dear friend was now at rest fr'om all 
his labours, sufferings, and sorrows, and 
where his good works would follow him. 

" I received the letter informing me," 
continued Neville, " of our dear friend's — 
happiness, (I may say,) this morning, and 
with it came this packet " — and he put a 
small parcel into Lucy's hand. " It has 
been sent to me from the Missionary 
Society's office, having come to England 
by a private hand." 

The packet contained a Bible — his 
Bible. By the name and date at the first 
page, it had been apparently a present 
from his friend Neville, at the beginning 
of their acquaintance at the time of Eus- 
tace's severe illness at Oxford : there were 
various other events in his life, with their 
dates recorded, and with applicable texts : 


tlie day he had left Eome — the day he 
had taken orders — that on which they had 
again met in London — that on which he 
had first left England — that on which 
they had finally parted. 

In the last page, written in a very 
uncertain hand, one evidently nnder the 
benumbing influence of death, were these 
words : — 

" I leave to you, dearest, my best friend, 
the friend that has comforted me in all 
my trials. May it comfort you. Farewell ! 
I can write no more. We shall meet — 
before long — in a better world — never 
to — part. — Eustace." 

Within the last pages of the Bible was 
an envelope, containing a lock of brown 
wavy hair ; but although scarcely thirty 
years had yet passed over the head from 
which it had been taken, it was already 
grizzled with care and sufiering. 

In that same envelope was a ring. It 
was that which Eustace had drawn from 
Lucy's finger, that evening when he had 


related to her his delightful dream in 
Elsmere churchyard. The pale, Van- 
dyke hand from wlijch it last was taken 
was now cold, and stiff in death." 

Neville did not go to Lucy's cottage 
for a few days : he thought it better to 
leave her and the bereaved mother toge- 
ther, till they had got over the first shock. 
On opening the door one morning, he was 
struck with the peculiar expression of 
serenity on Lucy's countenance. 

" I feel so at rest now," said she, as 
she returned the kind pressure of Neville's 
hand. " To think of him in happiness — 
oh, it is such a blessed thought ! and I 
feel as if he was always with me now — 
my constant companion; as if he knew 
my very thoughts. I am not alone now ! 

Dear, dear cousin Eustace !" 

" There, in the twilight, cold and grey, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay ; 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell like a falling star. 
Excelsior !" 


Postscript by the Editor. 

Lady Emily Maxwell never rested till 
she had discovered the abode of her in- 
jured young friend. It was not in Lucy's 
gentle nature to reject one who sought 
her in love and repentance, and with the 
desire of making reparation, as far as she 
could, for the past. And of this Lady 
Emily gave most unequivocal proofs. She 
took upon herself the whole expense of 
the education and worldly prospects of 
Lucy's boy, who was bred to the navy ; 
and at the death of Sir Alexander, which 
occurred a few years afterwards, it was 
through her exertions, and her interest, 


that his claim to his father's title and 
property in the highlands of Scotland was 
brought forward and substantiated. 

Tlie young Sir Frederick MehoUe is 
now a distinguished officer on board one 
of Her Majesty's ships in the Crimea. 

Lucy, in other words Lady Melville, 
still Hves in the little retired villasfe of 
Barton. She has made over her school 
into other hands, her time being now fully 
occupied in attending to the declining 
health of Mrs. Grrey. Her worldly means, 
although augmented to the utmost of her 
son's power, are still very small, owing to 
the ruined state of his Highland property ; 
but they are equal to her wishes, being 
sufficient to enable her to assist those less 
weU off than herself. And thus in acts of 
charity her days pass peaceably away. But 
her only actual enjopnent is in the con- 
templation of a life to come, wherein she 
will be reunited to those whose memory 
is never absent from her mind. 

She has listened to many a gifted 


preacher, many an eloquent sermon in 
Barton parish church, but never to one 
Hke that she heard in Quebec-street Cha- 
pel ; — never to a voice that went to her 
heart like that of Eustace Grey. 




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